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University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


Stories  by  American  Authors. 
v. 


*#*  The  Stories  in  this  volume  are  pro- 
tected by  copyright,  and  are  printed  here 
by  the  authority  of  the  authors  or  their 
representatives. 


/f) 


Stories  by 
American  Authors 


V. 


A    LIGHT   MAN. 

By  HENRY  JAMES. 

YATIL. 

By  F.  D.  MILLET. 

THE    END    OF    NEW    YORK. 

By  PARK  BENJAMIN. 

WHY    THOMAS    WAS    DISCHARGED. 

By  GEORGE  ARNOLD. 

THE   TACHYPOMP. 

By  E.  P.  MITCHELL. 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1891 


COPYRIGHT,  1884,  BY 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


1,  173  Macdougal  Street,  New  York 


A  LIGHT  MAN. 

BY  HENRY  JAMES. 


"  And  I — what  I  seem  to  my  friend,  you  see — 

What  I  soon  shall  seem  to  his  love,  you  guess. 
What  I  seem  to  myself,  do  you  ask  of  me  ? 
No  hero,  I  confess." 

A  Light  Woman. — Browning  $  Men  and  Women* 

APRIL  4,  1857. — I  have  changed  my  sky  with- 
out changing  my  mind.  I  resume  these  old 
notes  in  a  new  world.  I  hardly  know  of  what  use 
they  are  ;  but  it's  easier  to  stick  to  the  habit  than 
to  drop  it.  I  have  been  at  home  now  a  week — at 
home,  forsooth  !  And  yet,  after  all,  it  is  home.  I 
am  dejected,  I  am  bored,  I  am  blue.  How  can  a 
man  be  more  at  home  than  that  ?  Nevertheless,  I 
am  the  citizen  of  a  great  country,  and  for  that 
matter,  of  a  great  city.  I  walked  to-day  some  ten 
miles  or  so  along  Broadway,  and  on  the  whole  I 
don't  blush  for  my  native  land.  We  are  a  capable 

**»  The  Galaxy •,  July,  1869. 


6  A   LIGHT  MAN. 

race  and  a  good-looking  withal ;  and  I  don't  see  why 
we  shouldn't  prosper  as  well  as  another.  This,  by 
the  way,  ought  to  be  a  very  encouraging  reflection. 
A  capable  fellow  and  a  good-looking  withal  ;  I 
don't  see  why  he  shouldn't  die  a  millionaire.  At 
all  events  he  must  do  something.  When  a  man 
has,  at  thirty-two,  a  net  income  of  considerably 
less  than  nothing,  he  can  scarcely  hope  to  overtake 
a  fortune  before  he  himself  is  overtaken  by  age  and 
philosophy — two  deplorable  obstructions.  I  am 
afraid  that  one  of  them  has  already  planted  itself 
in  my  path.  What  am  I  ?  What  do  I  wish  ? 
Whither  do  I  tend  ?  What  do  I  believe  ?  I  am 
constantly  beset  by  these  impertinent  whisperings. 
Formerly  it  was  enough  that  I  was  Maximus  Aus- 
tin ;  that  I  was  endowed  with  a  cheerful  mind  and 
a  good  digestion  ;  that  one  day  or  another,  when  I 
had  come  to  the  end,  I  should  return  to  America 
and  begin  at  the  beginning  ;  that,  meanwhile,  ex- 
istence was  sweet  in — in  the  Rue  Tronchet.  But 
now  /  Has  the  sweetness  really  passed  out  of  life  ? 
Have  I  eaten  the  plums  and  left  nothing  but  the 
bread  and  milk  and  corn-starch,  or  whatever  the 
horrible  concoction  is  ? — I  had  it  to-day  for  dinner. 
Pleasure,  at  least,  I  imagine — pleasure  pure  and 
simple,  pleasure  crude,  brutal  and  vulgar — this 
poor  flimsy  delusion  has  lost  all  its  charm.  I  shall 
never  again  care  for  certain  things — and  indeed  for 
certain  persons.  Of  such  things,  of  such  persons, 
I  firmly  maintain,  however,  that  I  was  never  an 
enthusiastic  votary.  It  would  be  more  to  my 


A   LIGHT  MAN.  7 

credit,  I  suppose,  if  I  had  been.  More  would  be 
forgiven  me  if  I  had  loved  a  little  more,  if  into  all 
my  folly  and  egotism  I  had  put  a  little  more  na'ivett 
and  sincerity.  Well,  I  did  the  best  I  could,  I  was 
at  once  too  bad  and  too  good  for  it  all.  At  pres- 
ent, it's  far  enough  off  ;  I  have  put  the  sea  between 
us  ;  I  arri  stranded.  I  sit  high  and  dry,  scanning 
the  horizon  for  a  friendly  sail,  or  waiting  for  a 
high  tide  to  set  me  afloat.  The  wave  of  pleasure 
has  deposited  me  here  in  the  sand.  Shall  I  owe 
my  rescue  to  the  wave  of  pain  ?  At  moments  I 
feel  a  kind  of  longing  to  expiate  my  stupid  little 
sins.  I  see,  as  through  a  glass,  darkly,  the  beauty 
of  labor  and  love.  Decidedly,  I  am  willing  to 
work.  It's  written. 

jth. — My  sail  is  in  sight  ;  it's  at  hand  ;  I  have 
all  but  boarded  the  vessel.  I  received  this  morn- 
ing a  letter  from  the  best  man  in  the  world.  Here 
it  is  : 

DEAR  MAX  :  I  see  this  very  moment,  in  an  old  newspaper 
which  had  already  passed  through  my  hands  without  yielding 
up  its  most  precious  item,  the  announcement  of  your  arrival  in 
New  York.  To  think  of  your  having  perhaps  missed  the  wel- 
come you  had  a  right  to  expect  from  me  !  Here  it  is,  dear  Max — 
as  cordial  as  you  please.  When  I  say  I  have  just  read  of  your 
arrival,  I  mean  that  twenty  minutes  have  elapsed  by  the  clock. 
These  have  been  spent  in  conversation  with  my  excellent  friend 
Mr.  Sloane — we  having  taken  the  liberty  of  making  you  the 
topic.  I  haven't  time  to  say  more  about  Frederick  Sloane  than 
that  he  is  very  anxious  to  make  your  acquaintance,  and  that, 
if  your  time  is  not  otherwise  engaged,  he  would  like  you  very 
much  to  spend  a  month  with  him.  He  is  an  excellent  host,  or  I 


8  A    LIGHT  MAN. 

shouldn't  be  here  myself.  It  appears  that  he  knew  your  moth- 
er very  intimately,  and  he  has  a  taste  for  visiting  the  amenities 
of  the  parents  upon  the  children  ;  the  original  ground  of  my 
own  connection  with  him  was  that  he  had  been  a  particular  friend 
of  my  father.  You  may  have  heard  your  mother  speak  of  him. 
He  is  a  very  strange  old  fellow,  but  you  will  like  him.  Whether 
or  no  you  come  for  his  sake,  come  for  mine. 

Yours  always,  THEODORE  LISLE. 

Theodore's  letter  is  of  course  very  kind,  but  it's 
remarkably  obscure.  My  mother  may  have  had 
the  highest  regard  for  Mr.  Sloane,  but  she  never 
mentioned  his  name  in  my  hearing.  Who  is  he, 
what  is  he,  and  what  is  the  nature  of  his  relations 
with  Theodore  ?  I  shall  learn  betimes.  I  have 
written  to  Theodore  that  I  gladly  accept  (I  believe 
I  suppressed  the  "  gladly"  though)  his  friend's  in- 
vitation, and  that  I  shall  immediately  present  my- 
self. What  can  I  do  that  is  better  ?  Speaking 
sordidly,  I  shall  obtain  food  and  lodging  while  I 
look  about  me.  I  shall  have  a  base  of  operations. 
D.,  it  appears,  is  a  long  day's  journey,  but  en- 
chanting when  you  reach  it.  I  am  curious  to  see 
an  enchanting  American  town.  And  to  stay  a 
month  !  Mr.  Frederick  Sloane,  whoever  you  are, 
vous  faites  bien  les  choses,  and  the  little  that  I  know 
of  you  is  very  much  to  your  credit.  You  enjoyed 
the  friendship  of  my  dear  mother,  you  possess  the 
esteem  of  the  virtuous  Theodore,  you  commend 
yourself  to  my  own  affection.  At  this  rate,  I  shall 
not  grudge  it. 

D — ,  i4th.  —  I    have  been  here  since   Thursday 


A    LIGHT  MAN.  9 

evening — three  days.  As  we  rattled  up  to  the  tav- 
ern in  the  village,  I  perceived  from  the  top  of  the 
coach,  in  the  twilight,  Theodore  beneath  the  porch, 
scanning  the  vehicle,  with  all  his  amiable  disposi- 
tion in  his  eyes.  He  has  grown  older,  of  course,  in 
these  five  years,  but  less  so  than  I  had  expected. 
His  is  one  of  those  smooth,  unwrinkled  souls  that 
keep  their  bodies  fair  and  fresh.  As  tall  as  ever, 
moreover,  and  as  lean  and  clean.  How  short  and 
fat  and  dark  and  debauched  he  makes  one  feel  ! 
By  nothing  he  says  or  means,  of  course,  but  merely 
by  his  old  unconscious  purity  and  simplicity — that 
slender  straightness  which  makes  him  remind  you 
of  the  spire  of  an  English  abbey.  He  greeted  me 
with  smiles,  and  stares,  and  alarming  blushes.  He 
assures  me  that  he  never  would  have  known  me, 
and  that  five  years  have  altered  me — sehr  !  I  asked 
him  if  it  were  for  the  better  ?  He  looked  at  me 
hard  for  a  moment,  with  his  eyes  of  blue,  and  then, 
for  an  answer,  he  blushed  again. 

On  my  arrival  we  agreed  to  walk  over  from  the 
village.  He  dismissed  his  wagon  with  my  luggage, 
and  we  went  arm-in-arm  through  the  dusk.  The 
town  is  seated  at  the  foot  of  certain  mountains, 
whose  names  I  have  yet  to  learn,  and  at  the  head 
of  a  big  sheet  of  water,  which,  as  yet,  too,  I  know 
only  as  "  the  Lake."  The  road  hitherward  soon 
leaves  the  village  and  wanders  in  rural  loveliness 
by  the  margin  of  this  expanse.  Sometimes  the 
water  is  hidden  by  clumps  of  trees,  behind  which 
we  heard  it  lapping  and  gurgling  in  the  darkness  ; 


io  A    LIGHT  MAN. 

sometimes  it  stretches  out  from  your  feet  in  shin- 
ing vagueness,  as  if  it  were  tired  of  making,  all 
day,  a  million  little  eyes  at  the  great  stupid  hills. 
The  walk  from  the  tavern  takes  some  half  an  hour, 
and  in  this  interval  Theodore  made  his  position  a 
little  more  clear.  Mr.  Sloane  is  a  rich  old  wid- 
ower ;  his  age  is  seventy-two,  and  as  his  health  is 
thoroughly  broken,  is  practically  even  greater  ;  and 
his  fortune  —  Theodore,  characteristically,  doesn't 
know  anything  definite  about  that.  It's  probably 
about  a  million.  He  has  lived  much  in  Europe, 
and  in  the  "  great  world  ;"  he  has  had  adventures 
and  passions  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  ;  and  now, 
in  the  evening  of  his  days,  like  an  old  French 
diplomatist,  he  takes  it  into  his  head  to  write  his 
memoirs.  To  this  end  he  has  lured  poor  Theodore 
to  his  gruesome  side,  to  mend  his  pens  for  him. 
He  has  been  a  great  scribbler,  says  Theodore,  all 
his  days,  and  he  proposes  to  incorporate  a  large 
amount  of  promiscuous  literary  matter  into  these 
souvenirs  intimes.  Theodore's  principal  function 
seems  to  be  to  get  him  to  leave  things  out.  In 
fact,  the  poor  youth  seems  troubled  in  conscience. 
His  patron's  lucubrations  have  taken  the  turn  of 
many  other  memoirs,  and  have  ceased  to  address 
themselves  virginibus  puerisque.  On  the  whole,  he 
declares  they  are  a  very  odd  mixture — a  medley  of 
gold  and  tinsel,  of  bad  taste  and  good  sense.  I 
can  readily  understand  it.  The  old  man  bores  me, 
puzzles  me,  and  amuses  me. 

He  was  in  waiting  to  receive  me.     We  found  him 


A  LIGHT  MAN.  n 

in  his  library — which,  by  the  way,  is  simply  the 
most  delightful  apartment  that  I  ever  smoked  a 
cigar  in — a  room  arranged  for  a  lifetime.  At  one 
end  stands  a  great  fireplace,  with  a  florid,  fantastic 
mantelpiece  in  carved  white  marble — an  importa- 
tion, of  course,  and,  as  one  may  say,  an  interpola- 
tion ;  the  groundwork  of  the  house,  the  "  fixtures,'* 
being  throughout  plain,  solid  and  domestic. 
Over  the  mantel-shelf  is  a  large  landscape,  a  fine 
Gainsborough,  full  of  the  complicated  harmonies 
of  an  English  summer.  Beneath  it  stands  a  row  of 
bronzes  of  the  Renaissance  and  potteries  of  the 
Orient.  Facing  the  door,  as  you  enter,  is  an  im- 
mense window  set  in  a  recess,  with  cushioned  seats 
and  large  clear  panes,  stationed  as  it  were  at  the 
very  apex  of  the  lake  (which  forms  an  almost  per- 
fect oval)  and  commanding  a  view  of  its  whole  ex- 
tent. At  the  other  end,  opposite  the  fireplace,  the 
wall  is  studded,  from  floor  to  ceiling,  with  choice 
foreign  paintings,  placed  in  relief  against  the  ortho- 
dox crimson  screen.  Elsewhere  the  walls  are  cov- 
ered with  books,  arranged  neither  in  formal  regu- 
larity nor  quite  helter-skelter,  but  in  a  sort  of 
genial  incongruity,  which  tells  that  sooner  or  later 
each  volume  feels  sure  of  leaving  the  ranks  and  re- 
turning into  different  company.  Mr.  Sloane  makes 
use  of  his  books.  His  two  passions,  according  to 
Theodore,  are  reading  and  talking  ;  but  to  talk  he 
must  have  a  book  in  his  hand.  The  charm  of  the 
room  lies  in  the  absence  of  certain  pedantic  tones 
— the  browns,  blacks  and  grays — which  distinguish 


12  A   LIGHT  MAN. 

most  libraries.  The  apartment  is  of  the  feminine 
gender.  There  are  half  a  dozen  light  colors  scat- 
tered about — pink  in  the  carpet,  tender  blue  in  the 
curtains,  yellow  in  the  chairs.  The  result  is  a  gen- 
eral look  of  brightness  and  lightness  ;  it  expresses 
even  a  certain  cynicism.  You  perceive  the  place 
to  be  the  home,  not  of  a  man  of  learning,  but  of  a 
man  of  fancy. 

He  rose  from  his  chair — the  man  of  fancy,  to 
greet  me — the  man  of  fact.  As  I  looked  at  him,  in 
the  lamplight,  it  seemed  to  me,  for  the  first  five 
minutes,  that  I  had  seldom  seen  an  uglier  little 
person.  It  took  me  five  minutes  to  get  the  point 
of  view  ;  then  I  began  to  admire.  He  is  diminu- 
tive, or  at  best  of  my  own  moderate  stature,  and 
bent  and  contracted  with  his  seventy  years  ;  lean 
and  delicate,  moreover,  and  very  highly  finished. 
He  is  curiously  pale,  with  a  kind  of  opaque  yellow 
pallor.  Literally,  it's  a  magnificent  yellow.  His 
skin  is  of  just  the  hue  and  apparent  texture  of  some 
old  crumpled  Oriental  scroll.  I  know  a  dozen 
painters  who  would  give  more  than  they  have  to 
arrive  at  the  exact  "  tone"  of  his  thick-veined, 
bloodless  hands,  his  polished  ivory  knuckles.  His 
eyes  are  circled  with  red,  but  in  the  battered  little 
setting  of  their  orbits  they  have  the  lustre  of  old 
sapphires.  His  nose,  owing  to  the  falling  away  of 
other  portions  of  his  face,  has  assumed  a  grotesque, 
unnatural  prominence  ;  it  describes  an  immense 
arch,  gleaming  like  a  piece  of  parchment  stretched 
on  ivory.  He  has,  apparently,  all  his  teeth,  but 


A   LIGHT  MAN.  13 

has  muffled  his  cranium  in  a  dead  black  wig  ;  of 
course  he's  clean  shaven.  In  his  dress  he  has  a 
muffled,  wadded  look  and  an  apparent  aversion  to 
linen,  inasmuch  as  none  is  visible  on  his  person. 
He  seems  neat  enough,  but  not  fastidious.  At 
first,  as  I  say,  I  fancied  him  monstrously  ugly  ;  but 
on  further  acquaintance  I  perceived  that  what  I 
had  taken  for  ugliness  is  nothing  but  the  incom- 
plete remains  of  remarkable  good  looks.  The  line 
of  his  features  is  pure  ;  his  nose,  cczteris  paribus, 
would  be  extremely  handsome  ;  his  eyes  are  the 
oldest  eyes  I  ever  saw,  and  yet  they  are  wonder- 
fully living.  He  has  something  remarkably  insin- 
uating. 

He  offered  his  two  hands,  as  Theodore  intro- 
duced me  ;  I  gave  him  my  own,  and  he  stood  smil- 
ing at  me  like  some  quaint  old  image  in  ivory  and 
ebony,  scanning  my  face  with  a  curiosity  which  he 
took  no  pains  to  conceal.  "  God  bless  me,"  he 
said,  at  last,  "  how  much  you  look  like  your 
father  !"  I  sat  down,  and  for  half  an  hour  we 
talked  of  many  things — of  my  journey,  of  my  im- 
pressions of  America,  of  my  reminiscences  of  Eu- 
rope, and,  by  implication,  of  my  prospects.  His 
voice  is  weak  and  cracked,  but  he  makes  it  express 
everything.  Mr.  Sloane  is  not  yet  in  his  dotage — 
oh  no  !  He  nevertheless  makes  himself  out  a  poor 
creature.  In  reply  to  an  inquiry  of  mine  about  his 
health,  he  favored  me  with  a  long  list  of  his  infirm- 
ities (some  of  which  are  very  trying,  certainly)  and 
assured  me  that  he  was  quite  finished. 


14  A   LIGHT  MAN. 

"  I  live  out  of  mere  curiosity,"  he  said. 

"I  have  heard  of  people  dying  from  the  same 
motive." 

He  looked  at  me  a  moment,  as  if  to  ascertain 
whether  I  were  laughing  at  him.  And  then,  after 
a  pause,  "  Perhaps  you  don't  know  that  I  disbe- 
lieve in  a  future  life,"  he  remarked,  blandly. 

At  these  words  Theodore  got  up  and  walked  to 
the  fire. 

"  Well,  we  shan't  quarrel  about  that,"  said  I. 
Theodore  turned  round,  staring. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  agree  with  me?"  the 
old  man  asked. 

"  I  certainly  haven't  come  here  to  talk  theology  ! 
Don't  ask  me  to  disbelieve,  and  I'll  never  ask  you 
to  believe." 

"  Come,"  cried  Mr.  Sloane,  rubbing  his  hands, 
"  you'll  not  persuade  me  you  are  a  Christian — like 
your  friend  Theodore  there." 

"  Like  Theodore — assuredly  not."  And  then, 
somehow,  I  don't  know  why,  at  the  thought  of 
Theodore's  Christianity  I  burst  into  a  laugh. 
"  Excuse  me,  my  dear  fellow,"  I  said,  "  you  know, 
for  the  last  ten  years  I  have  lived  in  pagan  lands." 

"  What  do  you  call  pagan?"  asked  Theodore, 
smiling. 

I  saw  the  old  man,  with  his  hands  locked,  eying 
me  shrewdly,  and  waiting  for  my  answer.  I  hesi- 
tated a  moment,  and  then  I  said,  "  Everything  that 
makes  life  tolerable  !" 

Hereupon   Mr.   Sloane   began    to   laugh   till  he 


A   LIGHT  MAN.  15 

coughed.     Verily,  I   thought,  if  he  lives  for  curi- 
osity, he's  easily  satisfied. 

We  went  into  dinner,  and  this  repast  showed  me 
that  some  of  his  curiosity  is  culinary.  I  observed, 
by  the  way,  that  for  a  victim  of  neuralgia,  dyspep- 
sia, and  a  thousand  other  ills,  Mr.  Sloane  plies  a 
most  inconsequential  knife  and  fork.  Sauces  and 
spices  and  condiments  seem  to  be  the  chief  of  his 
diet.  After  dinner  he  dismissed  us,  in  considera- 
tion of  my  natural  desire  to  see  my  friend  in  pri- 
vate. Theodore  has  capital  quarters — a  downy 
bedroom  and  a  snug  little  salon.  We  talked  till 
near  midnight  —  of  ourselves,  of  each  other,  and 
of  the  author  of  the  memoirs,  down  stairs.  That 
is,  I  spoke  of  myself,  and  Theodore  listened  ;  and 
then  Theodore  descanted  upon  Mr.  Sloane,  and  I 
listened.  His  commerce  with  the  old  man  has 
sharpened  his  wits.  Sloane  has  taught  him  to 
observe  and  judge,  and  Theodore  turns  round, 
observes,  judges — him  !  He  has  become  quite  the 
critic  and  analyst.  There  is  something  very  pleas- 
ant in  the  discriminations  of  a  conscientious  mind, 
in  which  criticism  is  tempered  by  an  angelic  char- 
ity. Only,  it  may  easily  end  by  acting  on  one's 
nerves.  At  midnight  we  repaired  to  the  library, 
to  take  leave  of  our  host  till  the  morrow — an  at- 
tention which,  under  all  circumstances,  he  rigidly 
exacts.  As  I  gave  him  my  hand  he  held  it  again 
and  looked  at  me  as  he  had  done  on  my  arrival. 
"  Bless  my  soul,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  how  much  you 
look  like  your  mother  !'* 


1 6  A   LIGHT  MAN. 

To-night,  at  the  end  of  my  third  day,  I  begin  to 
feel  decidedly  at  home.  The  fact  is,  I  am  remark- 
ably comfortable.  The  house  is  pervaded  by  an 
indefinable,  irresistible  love  of  luxury  and  privacy. 
Mr.  Frederick  Sloane  is  a  horribly  corrupt  old 
mortal.  Already  in  his  relaxing  presence  I  have 
become  heartily  reconciled  to  doing  nothing.  But 
with  Theodore  on  one  side — standing  there  like  a 
tall  interrogation-point — I  honestly  believe  I  can 
defy  Mr.  Sloane  on  the  other.  The  former  asked 
me  this  morning,  with  visible  solicitude,  in  allu- 
sion to  the  bit  of  dialogue  I  have  quoted  above  on 
matters  of  faith,  whether  I  am  really  a  materialist 
— whether  I  don't  believe  something  ?  I  told  him 
I  would  believe  anything  he  liked.  He  looked 
at  me  a  while,  in  friendly  sadness.  "  I  hardly 
know  whether  you  are  not  worse  than  Mr.  Sloane," 
he  said. 

But  Theodore  is,  after  all,  in  duty  bound  to  give 
a  man  a  long  rope  in  these  matters.  His  own  rope 
is  one  of  the  longest.  He  reads  Voltaire  with  Mr. 
Sloane,  and  Emerson  in  his  own  room.  He  is  the 
stronger  man  of  the  two  ;  he  has  the  larger  stom- 
ach. Mr.  Sloane  delights,  of  course,  in  Voltaire, 
but  he  can't  read  a  line  of  Emerson.  Theodore 
delights  in  Emerson,  and  enjoys  Voltaire,  though 
he  thinks  him  superficial.  It  appears  that  since  we 
parted  in  Paris,  five  years  ago,  his  conscience  has 
dwelt  in  many  lands.  C'est  tout  une  histoire — which 
he  tells  very  prettily.  He  left  college  determined 
to  enter  the  church,  and  came  abroad  with  his 


A    LIGHT  MAN.  17 

mind  full  of  theology  and  Tubingen.  He  appears 
to  have  studied,  not  wisely  but  too  well.  Instead 
of  faith  full-armed  and  serene,  there  sprang  from 
the  labor  of  his  brain  a  myriad  sickly  questions, 
piping  for  answers.  He  went  for  a  winter  to  Italy, 
where,  I  take  it,  he  was  not  quite  so  much  afflicted 
as  he  ought  to  have  been  at  the  sight  of  the  beau- 
tiful spiritual  repose  that  he  had  missed.  It  was 
after  this  that  we  spent  those  three  months  together 
in  Brittany — the  best-spent  months  of  my  long 
residence  in  Europe.  Theodore  inoculated  me,  I 
think,  with  some  of  his  seriousness,  and  I  just 
touched  him  with  my  profanity  ;  and  we  agreed 
together  that  there  were  a  few  good  things  left — 
health,  friendship,  a  summer  sky,  and  the  lovely 
byways  of  an  old  French  province.  He  came 
home,  searched  the  Scriptures  once  more,  accepted 
a  "  call,"  and  made  an  attempt  to  respond  to  it. 
But  the  inner  voice  failed  him.  His  outlook  was 
cheerless  enough.  During  his  absence  his  married 
sister,  the  elder  one,  had  taken  the  other  to  live 
with  her,  relieving  Theodore  of  the  charge  of  con- 
tribution to  her  support.  But  suddenly,  behold  the 
husband,  the  brother-in-law,  dies,  leaving  a  mere 
figment  of  property  ;  and  the  two  ladies,  with 
their  two  little  girls,  are  afloat  in  the  wide  world. 
Theodore  finds  himself  at  twenty-six  without  an 
income,  without  a  profession,  and  with  a  family  of 
four  females  to  support.  Well,  in  his  quiet  way 
he  draws  on  his  courage.  The  history  of  the  two 
years  that  passed  before  he  came  to  Mr.  Sloane  is 


1 8  A   LIGHT  MAN. 

really  absolutely  edifying.  He  rescued  his  sisters 
and  nieces  from  the  deep  waters,  placed  them  high 
and  dry,  established  them  somewhere  in  decent 
gentility — and  then  found  at  last  that  his  strength 
had  left  him — had  dropped  dead  like  an  over- 
ridden horse.  In  short,  he  had  worked  himself  to 
the  bone.  It  was  now  his  sisters'  turn.  They 
nursed  him  with  all  the  added  tenderness  of  grati- 
tude for  the  past  and  terror  of  the  future,  and 
brought  him  safely  through  a  grievous  malady. 
Meanwhile  Mr.  Sloane,  having  decided  to  treat 
himself  to  a  private  secretary  and  suffered  dread- 
ful mischance  in  three  successive  experiments,  had 
heard  of  Theodore's  situation  and  his  merits  ;  had 
furthermore  recognized  in  him  the  son  of  an  early 
and  intimate  friend,  and  had  finally  offered  him 
the  very  comfortable  position  he  now  occupies. 
There  is  a  decided  incongruity  between  Theodore 
as  a  man — as  Theodore,  in  fine — and  the  dear 
fellow  as  the  intellectual  agent,  confidant,  com- 
plaisant, purveyor,  pander — what  you  will — of  a 
battered  old  cynic  and  dilettante — a  worldling  if 
there  ever  was  one.  There  seems  at  first  sight  a 
perfect  want  of  agreement  between  his  character 
and  his  function.  One  is  gold  and  the  other  brass, 
or  something  very  like  it.  But  on  reflection  I  can 
enter  into  it — his  having,  under  the  circumstances, 
accepted  Mr.  Sloane' s  offer  and  been  content  to  do 
his  duties.  Ce  que  c  est  de  nous!  Theodore's  con- 
tentment in  such  a  case  is  a  theme  for  the  moralist 
—a  better  moralist  than  I.  The  best  and  purest 


A   LIGHT  MAN.  19 

mortals  are  an  odd  mixture,  and  in  none  of  us  does 
honesty  exist  on  its  own  terms.  Ideally,  Theodore 
hasn't  the  smallest  business  dans  cette  galere.  It 
offends  my  sense  of  propriety  to  find  him  here.  I 
feel  that  I  ought  to  notify  him  as  a  friend  that  he 
has  knocked  at  the  wrong  door,  and  that  he  had 
better  retreat  before  he  is  brought  to  the  blush. 
However,  I  suppose  he  might  as  well  be  here  as 
reading  Emerson  "evenings"  in  the  back  parlor, 
to  those  two  very  plain  sisters — judging  from  their 
photographs.  Practically  it  hurts  no  one  not  to  be 
too  much  of  a  prig.  Poor  Theodore  was  weak, 
depressed,  out  of  work.  Mr.  Sloane  offers  him  a 
lodging  and  a  salary  in  return  for — after  all,  merely 
a  little  tact.  All  he  has  to  do  is  to  read  to  the  old 
man,  lay  down  the  book  a  while,  with  his  finger  in 
the  place,  and  let  him  talk  ;  take  it  up  again,  read 
another  dozen  pages  and  submit  to  another  com- 
mentary. Then  to  write  a  dozen  pages  under  his 
dictation — to  suggest  a  word,  polish  off  a  period, 
or  help  him  out  with  a  complicated  idea  or  a  half- 
remembered  fact.  This  is  all,  I  say  ;  and  yet  this 
is  much.  Theodore's  apparent  success  proves  it  to 
be  much,  as  well  as  the  old  man's  satisfaction.  It 
is  a  part  ;  he  has  to  simulate.  Be  has  to  "  make 
believe"  a  little — a  good  deal  ;  he  has  to  put  his 
pride  in  his  pocket  and  send  his  conscience  to  the 
wash.  He  has  to  be  accommodating — to  listen 
and  pretend  and  flatter  ;  and  he  does  it  as  well  as 
many  a  worse  man — does  it  far  better  than  I.  I 
might  bully  the  old  man,  but  I  don't  think  I  could 


20  A   LIGHT  MAN. 

humor  him.  After  all,  however,  it  is  not  a  matter 
of  comparative  merit.  In  every  son  of  woman 
there  are  two  men — the  practical  man  and  the 
dreamer.  We  live  for  our  dreams — but,  mean- 
while, we  live  by  our  wits.  When  the  dreamer  is 
a  poet,  the  other  fellow  is  an  artist.  Theodore,  at 
bottom,  is  only  a  man  of  taste.  If  he  were  not  des- 
tined to  become  a  high  priest  among  moralists,  he 
might  be  a  prince  among  connoisseurs.  He  plays 
his  part,  therefore,  artistically,  with  spirit,  with 
originality,  with  all  his  native  refinement.  How 
can  Mr.  Sloane  fail  to  believe  that  he  possesses  a 
paragon  ?  He  is  no  such  fool  as  not  to  appreciate 
a  nature  distinguee  when  it  comes  in  his  way.  He 
confidentially  assured  me  this  morning  that  Theo- 
dore has  the  most  charming  mind  in  the  world, 
but  that  it's  a  pity  he's  so  simple  as  not  to  suspect 
it.  If  he  only  doesn't  ruin  him  with  his  flattery  ! 
i9th. — I  am  certainly  fortunate  among  men. 
This  morning  when,  tentatively,  I  spoke  of  going 
away,  Mr.  Sloane  rose  from  his  seat  in  horror  and 
declared  that  for  the  present  I  must  regard  his 
house  as  my  home.  "  Come,  come,"  he  said, 
"  when  you  leave  this  place  where  do  you  intend 
to  go?"  Where,  indeed?  I  graciously  allowed 
Mr.  Sloane  to  have  the  best  of  the  argument. 
Theodore  assures  me  that  he  appreciates  these  and 
other  affabilities,  and  that  I  have  made  what  he 
calls  a  "  conquest"  of  his  venerable  heart.  Poor, 
battered,  bamboozled  old  organ  !  he  would  have 
one  believe  that  it  has  a  most  tragical  record  of 


A    LIGHT  MAN.  21 

capture  and  recapture.  At  all  events,  it  appears 
that  I  am  master  of  the  citadel.  For  the  present  I 
have  no  wish  to  evacuate.  I  feel,  nevertheless,  in 
some  far-off  corner  of  my  soul,  that  I  ought  to 
shoulder  my  victorious  banner  and  advance  to 
more  fruitful  triumphs. 

I  blush  for  my  beastly  laziness.  It  isn't  that  I 
am  willing  to  stay  here  a  month,  but  that  I  am 
willing  to  stay  here  six.  Such  is  the  charming, 
disgusting  truth.  Have  I  really  outlived  the  age 
of  energy  ?  Have  I  survived  my  ambition,  my  in- 
tegrity, my  self-respect  ?  Verily,  I  ought  to  have 
survived  the  habit  of  asking  myself  silly  questions. 
I  made  up  my  mind  long  ago  to  go  in  for  nothing 
but  present  success  ;  and  I  don't  care  for  that 
sufficiently  to  secure  it  at  the  cost  of  temporary 
suffering.  I  have  a  passion  for  nothing — not  even 
for  life.  I  know  very  well  the  appearance  I  make 
in  the  world.  I  pass  for  a  clever,  accomplished, 
capable,  good-natured  fellow,  who  can  do  any- 
thing if  he  would  only  try.  I  am  supposed  to  be 
rather  cultivated,  to  have  latent  talents.  When  I 
was  younger  I  used  to  find  a  certain  entertain- 
ment in  the  spectacle  of  human  affairs.  I  liked  to 
see  men  and  women  hurrying  on  each  other's  heels 
across  the  stage.  But  I  am  sick  and  tired  of  them 
now  ;  not  that  I  am  a  misanthrope,  God  forbid  ! 
They  are  not  worth  hating.  I  never  knew  but  one 
creature  who  was,  and  her  I  went  and  loved.  To 
be  consistent,  I  ought  to  have  hated  my  mother, 
and  now  I  ought  to  detest  Theodore.  But  I  don't 


22  A    LIGHT  MAN. 

—truly,  on  the  whole,  I  don't — any  more  than  I 
dote  on  him.  I  firmly  believe  that  it  makes  a 
difference  to  him,  his  idea  that  I  am  fond  of  him. 
He  believes  in  that,  as  he  believes  in  all  the  rest  of 
it — in  my  culture,  my  latent  talents,  my  underly- 
ing "  earnestness,"  my  sense  of  beauty  and  love  of 
truth.  Oh,  for  a  man  among  them  all — a  fellow 
with  eyes  in  his  head — eyes  that  would  know  me 
for  what  I  am  and  let  me  see  they  had  guessed  it. 
Possibly  such  a  fellow  as  that  might  get  a  "  rise" 
out  of  me. 

In  the  name  of  bread  and  butter,  what  am  I  to 
do  ?  (I  was  obliged  this  morning  to  borrow  fifty 
dollars  from  Theodore,  who  remembered  gleefully 
that  he  has  been  owing  me  a  trifling  sum  for  the 
past  four  years,  and  in  fact  has  preserved  a  note  to 
this  effect.)  Within  the  last  week  I  have  hatched 
a  desperate  plan  :  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to 
take  a  wife — a  rich  one,  bien  entendu.  Why  not  ac- 
cept the  goods  of  the  gods  ?  It  is  not  my  fault, 
after  all,  if  I  pass  for  a  good  fellow.  Why  not  ad- 
mit that  practically,  mechanically — as  I  may  say  — 
maritally,  I  may  be  a  good  fellow  ?  I  warrant  my- 
self kind.  I  should  never  beat  my  wife  ;  I  don't 
think  I  should  even  contradict  her.  Assume  that 
her  fortune  has  the  proper  number  of  zeros  and 
that  she  herself  is  one  of  them,  and  I  can  even  im- 
agine her  adoring  me.  I  really  think  this  is  my 
only  way.  Curiously,  as  I  look  back  upon  my 
brief  career,  it  all  seems  to  tend  to  this  consumma- 
tion. It  has  its  graceful  curves  and  crooks,  indeed, 


A   LIGHT  MAN.  23 

and  here  and  there  a  passionate  tangent  ;  but  on 
the  whole,  if  I  were  to  unfold  it  here  &  la  Hogarth, 
what  better  legend  could  I  scrawl  beneath  the 
series  of  pictures  than  So-and-So's  Progress  to  a 
Mercenary  Marriage  ? 

Coming  events  do  what  we  all  know  with  their 
shadows.  My  noble  fate  is,  perhaps,  not  far  off. 
I  already  feel  throughout  my  person  a  magnificent 
languor — as  from  the  possession  of  many  dollars. 
Or  is  it  simply  my  sense  of  well-being  in  this  per- 
fectly appointed  house  ?  Is  it  simply  the  contact 
of  the  highest  civilization  I  have  known  ?  At  all 
events,  the  place  is  of  velvet,  and  my  only  com- 
plaint of  Mr.  Sloane  is  that,  instead  of  an  old  wid- 
ower, he's  not  an  old  widow  (or  a  young  maid),  so 
that  I  might  marry  him,  survive  him,  and  dwell 
forever  in  this  rich  and  mellow  home.  As  I  write 
here,  at  my  bedroom  table,  I  have  only  to  stretch 
out  an  arm  and  raise  the  window-curtain  to  see 
the  thick-planted  garden  budding  and  breathing 
and  growing  in  the  silvery  silence.  Far  above  in  the 
liquid  darkness  rolls  the  brilliant  ball  of  the  moon  ; 
beneath,  in  its  light,  lies  the  lake,  in  murmuring, 
troubled  sleep  ;  round  about,  the  mountains,  look- 
ing strange  and  blanched,  seem  to  bare  their  heads 
and  undrape  their  shoulders.  So  much  for  mid- 
night. To-morrow  the  scene  will  be  lovely  with 
the  beauty  of  day.  Under  one  aspect  or  another  I 
have  it  always  before  me.  At  the  end  of  the  gar- 
den is  moored  a  boat,  in  which  Theodore  and  I 
have  indulged  in  an  immense  deal  of  irregular 


24  A   LIGHT  MAN. 

navigation.  What  lovely  landward  coves  and 
bays  —  what  alder-smothered  creeks  —  what  lily- 
sheeted  pools — what  sheer  steep  hillsides,  making 
the  water  dark  and  quiet  where  they  hang.  I  con- 
fess that  in  these  excursions  Theodore  looks  after 
the  boat  and  I  after  the  scenery.  Mr.  Sloane 
avoids  the  water — on  account  of  the  dampness,  he 
says  ;  because  he's  afraid  of  drowning,  I  suspect. 

22d.  —  Theodore  is  right.  The  bonhomme  has 
taken  me  into  his  favor.  I  protest  I  don't  see  how 
he  was  to  escape  it.  Je  Fai  bien  soigne,  as  they  say 
in  Paris.  I  don't  blush  for  it.  In  one  coin  or  an- 
other I  must  repay  his  hospitality — which  is  cer- 
tainly very  liberal.  Theodore  dots  his  I's,  crosses 
his  /'s,  verifies  his  quotations  ;  while  I  set  traps  for 
that  famous  "  curiosity."  This  speaks  vastly  well 
for  my  powers.  He  pretends  to  be  surprised  at 
nothing,  and  to  possess  in  perfection — poor,  pitia- 
ble old  fop— the  art  of  keeping  his  countenance; 
but  repeatedly,  I  know,  I  have  made  him  stare. 
As  for  his  corruption,  which  I  spoke  of  above,  it's 
a  very  pretty  piece  of  wickedness,  but  it  strikes  me 
as  a  purely  intellectual  matter.  I  imagine  him 
never  to  have  had  any  real  senses.  He  may  have 
been  unclean  ;  morally,  he's  not  very  tidy  now  ; 
but  he  never  can  have  been  what  the  French  call  a 
viveur.  He's  too  delicate,  he's  of  a  feminine  turn  ; 
and  what  woman  was  ever  a  viveur  ?  He  likes  to 
sit  in  his  chair  and  read  scandal,  talk  scandal, 
make  scandal,  so  far  as  he  may  without  catching  a 
cold  or  bringing  on  a  headache.  I  already  feel  as 


A   LIGHT  MAN.  25 

if  I  had  known  him  a  lifetime.  I  read  him  as 
clearly  as  if  I  had.  I  know  the  type  to  which  he 
belongs  ;  I  have  encountered,  first  and  last,  a  good 
many  specimens  of  it.  He's  neither  more  nor  less 
than  a  gossip — a  gossip  flanked  by  a  coxcomb  and 
an  egotist.  He's  shallow,  vain,  cold,  superstitious, 
timid,  pretentious,  capricious  :  a  pretty  list  of 
foibles  !  And  yet,  for  all  this,  he  has  his  good 
points.  His  caprices  are  sometimes  generous,  and 
his  rebellion  against  the  ugliness  of  life  frequently 
makes  him  do  kind  things.  His  memory  (for  tri- 
fles) is  remarkable,  and  (where  his  own  perform- 
ances are  not  involved)  his  taste  is  excellent.  He 
has  no  courage  for  evil  more  than  for  good.  He  is 
the  victim,  however,  of  more  illusions  with  regard 
to  himself  than  I  ever  knew  a  single  brain  to  shel- 
ter. At  the  age  of  twenty,  poor,  ignorant  and 
remarkably  handsome,  he  married  a  woman  of  im- 
mense wealth,  many  years  his  senior.  At  the  end 
of  three  years  she  very  considerately  took  herself 
off  and  left  him  to  the  enjoyment  of  his  freedom 
and  riches.  If  he  had  remained  poor  he  might 
from  time  to  time  have  rubbed  at  random  against 
the  truth,  and  would  be  able  to  recognize  the  touch 
of  it.  But  he  wraps  himself  in  his  money  as  in  a 
wadded  dressing-gown,  and  goes  trundling  through 
life  on  his  little  gold  wheels.  The  greater  part  of 
his  career,  from  the  time  of  his  marriage  till  about 
ten  years  ago,  was  spent  in  Europe,  which,  super- 
ficially, he  knows  very  well.  He  has  lived  in  fifty 
places,  known  thousands  of  people,  and  spent 


26  A    LIGHT  MAN. 

a  very  large  fortune.  At  one  time,  I  believe,  he 
spent  considerably  too  much, trembled  for  an  instant 
on  the  verge  of  a  pecuniary  crash,  but  recovered 
himself,  and  found  himself  more  frightened  than 
hurt,  yet  audibly  recommended  to  lower  his  pitch. 
He  passed  five  years  in  a  species  of  penitent  seclu- 
sion on  the  lake  of— I  forget  what  (his  genius  seems 
to  be  partial  to  lakes),  and  laid  the  basis  of  his 
present  magnificent  taste  for  literature.  I  can't 
call  him  anything  but  magnificent  in  this  respect, 
so  long  as  he  must  have  his  punctuation  done  by  a 
nature  distinguee.  At  the  close  of  this  period,  by 
economy,  he  had  made  up  his  losses.  His  turning 
the  screw  during  those  relatively  impecunious 
years  represents,  I  am  pretty  sure,  the  only  act  of 
resolution  of  his  life.  It  was  rendered  possible  by 
his  morbid,  his  actually  pusillanimous  dread  of 
poverty  ;  he  doesn't  feel  safe  without  half  a  million 
between  him  and  starvation.  Meanwhile  he  had 
turned  from  a  young  man  into  an  old  man  ;  his 
health  was  broken,  his  spirit  was  jaded,  and  I  im- 
agine, to  do  him  justice,  that  he  began  to  feel  cer- 
tain natural,  filial  longings  for  this  dear  American 
mother  of  us  all.  They  say  the  most  hopeless  tru- 
ants and  triflers  have  come  to  it.  He  came  to  it, 
at  all  events  ;  he  packed  up  his  books  and  pictures 
and  gimcracks,  and  bade  farewell  to  Europe.  This 
house  which  he  now  occupies  belonged  to  his  wife's 
estate.  She  had,  for  sentimental  reasons  of  her 
own,  commended  it  to  his  particular  care.  On  his 
return  he  came  to  see  it,  liked  it,  turned  a  parcel 


A   LIGHT  MAN.  27 

of  carpenters  and  upholsterers  into  it,  and  by  in- 
habiting it  for  nine  years  transformed  it  into  the 
perfect  dwelling  which  I  find  it.  Here  he  has 
spent  all  his  time,  with  the  exception  of  a  usual 
winter's  visit  to  New  York — a  practice  recently  dis- 
continued, owing  to  the  increase  of  his  ailments 
and  the  projection  of  these  famous  memoirs.  His 
life  has  finally  come  to  be  passed  in  comparative 
solitude.  He  tells  of  various  distant  relatives,  as 
well  as  intimate  friends  of  both  sexes,  who  used 
formerly  to  be  entertained  at  his  cost  ;  but  with 
each  of  them,  in  the  course  of  time,  he  seems  to 
have  succeeded  in  quarrelling.  Throughout  life, 
evidently,  he  has  had  capital  fingers  for  plucking 
off  parasites.  Rich,  lonely,  and  vain,  he  must  have 
been  fair  game  for  the  race  of  social  sycophants 
and  cormorants  ;  and  it's  much  to  the  credit  of  his 
sharpness  and  that  instinct  of  self-defence  which 
nature  bestows  even  on  the  weak,  that  he  has  not 
been  despoiled  and  exploite.  Apparently  they  have 
all  been  bunglers.  I  maintain  that  something  is  to 
be  done  with  him  still.  But  one  must  work  in 
obedience  to  certain  definite  laws.  Doctor  Jones, 
his  physician,  tells  me  that  in  point  of  fact  he  has 
had  for  the  past  ten  years  an  unbroken  series  of 
favorites,  proteges,  heirs  presumptive  ;  but  that 
each,  in  turn,  by  some  fatally  false  movement,  has 
spilled  his  pottage.  The  doctor  declares,  more- 
over, that  they  were  mostly  very  common  people. 
Gradually  the  old  man  seems  to  have  developed  a 
preference  for  two  or  three  strictly  exquisite  inti- 


28  A   LIGHT  MAN. 

mates,  over  a  throng  of  your  vulgar  pensioners. 
His  tardy  literary  schemes,  too — fruit  of  his  all  but 
sapless  senility— have  absorbed  more  and  more  of 
his  time  and  attention.  The  end  of  it  all  is,  there- 
fore, that  Theodore  and  I  have  him  quite  to  our- 
selves, and  that  it  behooves  us  to  hold  our  por- 
ringers straight. 

Poor,  pretentious  old  simpleton  !  It's  not  his 
fault,  after  all,  that  he  fancies  himself  a  great 
little  man.  How  are  you  to  judge  of  the  stat- 
ure of  mankind  when  men  have  forever  addressed 
you  on  their  knees  ?  Peace  arid  joy  to  his  in- 
nocent fatuity  !  He  believes  himself  the  most 
rational  of  men  ;  in  fact,  he's  the  most  supersti- 
tious. He  fancies  himself  a  philosopher,  an  in- 
quirer, a  discoverer.  He  has  not  yet  discovered 
that  he  is  a  humbug,  that  Theodore  is  a  prig,  and 
that  I  am  an  adventurer.  He  prides  himself  on  his 
good  manners,  his  urbanity,  his  knowing  a  rule  of 
conduct  for  every  occasion  in  life.  My  private  im- 
pression is  that  his  skinny  old  bosom  contains  un- 
suspected treasures  of  impertinence.  He  takes  his 
stand  on  his  speculative  audacity — his  direct,  un- 
daunted gaze  at  the  universe  ;  in  truth,  his  mind 
is  haunted  by  a  hundred  dingy  old-world  spectres 
and  theological  phantasms.  He  imagines  himself 
one  of  the  most  solid  of  men  ;  he  is  essentially  one 
of  the  hollowest.  He  thinks  himself  ardent,  im- 
pulsive, passionate,  magnanimous  —  capable  of 
boundless  enthusiasm  for  an  idea  or  a  sentiment. 
It  is  clear  to  me  that  on  no  occasion  of  disinter- 


A    LIGHT  MAN.  29 

ested  action  can  he  ever  have  done  anything  in 
time.  He  believes,  finally,  that  he  has  drained  the 
cup  of  life  to  the  dregs  ;  that  he  has  known,  in  its 
bitterest  intensity,  every  emotion  of  which  the 
human  spirit  is  capable  ;  that  he  has  loved,  strug- 
gled, suffered.  Mere  vanity,  all  of  it.  He  has 
never  loved  any  one  but  himself  ;  he  has  never 
suffered  from  anything  but  an  undigested  supper 
or  an  exploded  pretension  ;  he  has  never  touched 
with  the  end  of  his  lips  the  vulgar  bowl  from  which 
the  mass  of  mankind  quaffs  its  floods  of  joy  and 
sorrow.  Well,  the  long  and  short  of  it  all  is,  that 
I  honestly  pity  him.  He  may  have  given  sly 
knock*  in  his  life,  but  he  can't  hurt  any  one  now. 
I  pity  his  ignorance,  his  weakness,  his  pusillanim- 
ity. He  has  tasted  the  real  sweetness  of  life  no 
more  than  its  bitterness  ;  he  has  never  dreamed, 
nor  experimented,  nor  dared  ;  he  has  never  known 
any  but  mercenary  affection  ;  neither  men  nor 
women  have  risked  aught  for  htm — for  his  good 
spirits,  his  good  looks,  his  empty  pockets.  How  I 
should  like  to  give  him,  for  once,  a  real  sensation  ! 
26th. — I  took  a  row  this  morning  with  Theodore 
a  couple  of  miles  along  the  lake,  to  a  point  where 
we  went  ashore  and  lounged  away  an  hour  in  the 
sunshine,  which  is  still  very  comfortable.  Poor 
Theodore  seems  troubled  about  many  things.  For 
one,  he  is  troubled  about  me  :  he  is  actually  more 
anxious  about  my  future  than  I  myself  ;  he  thinks 
better  of  me  than  I  do  of  myself  ;  he  is  so  deucedly 
conscientious,  so  scrupulous,  so  averse  to  giving 


30  A    LIGHT  MAN. 

offence  or  to  brusquer  any  situation  before  it  has 
played  itself  out,  that  he  shrinks  from  betraying 
his  apprehensions  or  asking  direct  questions, 
But  I  know  that  he  would  like  very  much  to  ex- 
tract from  me  some  intimation  that  there  is  some 
thing  under  the  sun  I  should  like  to  do.  I  catch 
myself  in  the  act  of  taking — heaven  forgive  me  ! — 
a  half-malignant  joy  in  confounding  his  expecta- 
tions— leading  his  generous  sympathies  off  the  scenl 
by  giving  him  momentary  glimpses  of  my  latent 
wickedness.  But  in  Theodore  I  have  so  firm  a 
friend  that  I  shall  have  a  considerable  job  if  I  ever 
find  it  needful  to  make  him  change  his  mind  about 
me.  He  admires  me — that's  absolute  ;  he  takes 
my  low  moral  tone  for  an  eccentricity  of  genius, 
and  it  only  imparts  an  extra  flavor — a  haut  godt— 
to  the  charm  of  my  intercourse.  Nevertheless,  1 
can  see  that  he  is  disappointed.  I  have  even  less 
to  show,  after  all  these  years,  than  he  had  hoped. 
Heaven  help  us  !  little  enough  it  must  strike  him 
as  being.  What  a  contradiction  there  is  in  our  be- 
ing friends  at  all  !  I  believe  we  shall  end  with 
hating  each  other.  It's  all  very  well  now — our 
agreeing  to  differ,  for  we  haven't  opposed  inter- 
ests. But  if  we  should  really  clash,  the  situation 
would  be  warm  !  I  wonder,  as  it  is,  that  Theodore 
keeps  his  patience  with  me.  His  education  since 
we  parted  should  tend  logically  to  make  him  de- 
spise me.  He  has  studied,  thought,  suffered,  loved 
—loved  those  very  plain  sisters  and  nieces.  Poor 
me  !  how  should  I  be  virtuous  ?  I  have  no  sisters, 


A   LIGHT  MAN.  31 

plain  or  pretty  ! — nothing  to  love,  work  for,  live 
for.  My  dear  Theodore,  if  you  are  going  one  of 
these  days  to  despise  me  and  drop  me — in  the 
name  of  comfort,  come  to  the  point  at  once,  and 
make  an  end  of  our  state  of  tension. 

He  is  troubled,  too,  about  Mr.  Sloane.  His  atti- 
tude toward  the  bonhomme  quite  passes  my  compre- 
hension. It's  the  queerest  jumble  of  contraries. 
He  penetrates  him,  disapproves  of  him — yet  re- 
spects and  admires  him.  It  all  comes  of  the  poor 
boy's  shrinking  New  England  conscience.  He's 
afraid  to  give  his  perceptions  a  fair  chance,  lest, 
forsooth,  they  should  look  over  his  neighbor's 
wall.  He'll  not  understand  that  he  may  as  well 
sacrifice  the  old  reprobate  for  a  lamb  as  for  a 
sheep.  His  view  of  the  gentleman,  therefore,  is  a 
perfect  tissue  of  cobwebs — a  jumble  of  half-way 
sorrows,  and  wire-drawn  charities,  and  hair- 
breadth 'scapes  from  utter  damnation,  and  sudden 
platitudes  of  generosity — fit,  all  of  it,  to  make  an 
angel  curse  ! 

"  The  man's  a  perfect  egotist  and  fool,"  say  I, 
"but  I  like  him."  Now  Theodore  likes  him — or 
rather  wants  to  like  him  ;  but  he  can't  reconcile  it 
to  his  self-respect — fastidious  deity  ! — to  like  a 
fool.  Why  the  deuce  can't  he  leave  it  alone  alto- 
gether ?  It's  a  purely  practical  matter.  He  ought 
to  do  the  duties  of  his  place  all  the  better  for  hav- 
ing his  head  clear  of  officious  sentiment.  I  don't 
believe  in  disinterested  service  ;  and  Theodore  is 
too  desperately  bent  on  preserving  his  disinterest- 


32  A    LIGHT  MAN. 

edness.  With  me  it's  different.  I  am  perfectly 
free  to  love  the  bonhomme — for  a  fool.  I'm  neither 
a  scribe  nor  a  Pharisee  ;  I  am  simply  a  student  of 
the  art  of  life. 

And  then,  Theodore  is  troubled  about  his  sisters. 
He's  afraid  he's  not  doing  his  duty  by  them.  He 
thinks  he  ought  to  be  with  them — to  be  getting  a 
larger  salary — to  be  teaching  his  nieces.  I  am  not 
versed  in  such  questions.  Perhaps  he  ought. 

May  3d. — This  morning  Theodore  sent  me  word 
that  he  was  ill  and  unable  to  get  up  ;  upon  which 
I  immediately  went  in  to  see  him.  He  had  caught 
cold,  was  sick  and  a  little  feverish.  I  urged  him 
to  make  no  attempt  to  leave  his  room,  and  assured 
him  that  I  would  do  what  I  could  to  reconcile  Mr. 
Sloane  to  his  absence.  This  I  found  an  easy  mat- 
ter. I  read  to  him  for  a  couple  of  hours,  wrote 
four  letters — one  in  French — and  then  talked  for  a 
while — a  good  while.  I  have  done  more  talking, 
by  the  way,  in  the  last  fortnight,  than  in  any  pre- 
vious twelve  months — much  of  it,  too,  none  of  the 
wisest,  nor,  I  may  add,  of  the  most  superstitiously 
veracious.  In  a  little  discussion,  two  or  three  days 
ago,  with  Theodore,  I  came  to  the  point  and  let 
him  know  that  in  gossiping  with  Mr.  Sloane  I 
made  no  scruple,  for  our  common  satisfaction,  of 
"  coloring"  more  or  less.  My  confession  gave  him 
"that  turn,"  as  Mrs.  Gamp  would  say,  that  his 
present  illness  may  be  the  result  of  it.  Neverthe- 
less, poor  dear  fellow,  I  trust  he  will  be  on  his  legs 
to-morrow.  This  afternoon,  somehow,  I  found 


A    LIGHT  MAN.  33 

myself  really  in  the  humor  of  talking.  There  was 
something  propitious  in  the  circumstances  ;  a 
hard,  cold  rain  without,  a  wood-fire  in  the  library, 
the  bonhomme  puffing  cigarettes  in  his  arm-chair, 
beside  him  a  portfolio  of  newly  imported  prints 
and  photographs,  and — Theodore  tucked  safely 
away  in  bed.  Finally,  when  I  brought  our  tetc-h-tete 
to  a  close  (taking  good  care  not  to  overstay  my 
welcome)  Mr.  Sloane  seized  me  by  both  hands  and 
honored  me  with  one  of  his  venerable  grins. 
"  Max/'  he  said — "  you  must  let  me  call  you  Max 
— you  are  the  most  delightful  man  I  ever  knew." 

Verily,  there's  some  virtue  left  in  me  yet.  I  be- 
lieve I  almost  blushed. 

"  Why  didn't  I  know  you  ten  years  ago  ?"  the 
old  man  went  on.  "  There  are  ten  years  lost." 

"  Ten  years  ago  I  was  not  worth  your  knowing,' ' 
Max  remarked. 

"  But  I  did  know  you  !"  cried  the  bonhomme. 
"  I  knew  you  in  knowing  your  mother." 

Ah  !  my  mother  again.  When  the  old  man  be- 
gins that  chapter  I  feel  like  telling  him  to  blow  out 
his  candle  and  go  to  bed. 

"  At  all  events,"  he  continued,  "  we  must  make 
the  most  of  the  years  that  remain.  I  am  a  rotten 
old  carcass,  but  I  have  no  intention  of  dying. 
You  won't  get  tired  of  me  and  want  to  go  away  ?" 

"I  am  devoted  to  you,  sir,"  I  said.  "  But  I 
must  be  looking  for  some  occupation,  you  know." 

"  Occupation  ?  bother  !  I'll  give  you  occupa- 
tion. I'll  give  you  wages." 


34  A    LIGHT  MAN. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  you  will  want  to  give  me  the 
wages  without  the  work."  And  then  I  declared 
that  I  must  go  up  and  look  at  poor  Theodore. 

The  bonhomme  still  kept  my  hands.  "  I  wish  very 
much  that  I  could  get  you  to  be  as  fond  of  me  as 
you  are  of  poor  Theodore." 

"  Ah,  don't  talk  about  fondness,  Mr.  Sloane.  I 
don't  deal  much  in  that  article." 

"  Don't  you  like  my  secretary  ?" 

"  Not  as  he  deserves." 

"  Nor  as  he  likes  you,  perhaps  ?" 

41  He  likes  me  more  than  I  deserve." 

"  Well,  Max,"  my  host  pursued,  "  we  can  be 
good  friends  all  the  same.  We  don't  need  a 
hocus-pocus  of  false  sentiment.  We  are  men,  aren't 
we  ? — men  of  sublime  good  sense."  And  just  here, 
as  the  old  man  looked  at  me,  the  pressure  of  his 
hands  deepened  to  a  convulsive  grasp,  and  the 
bloodless  mask  of  his  countenance  was  suddenly 
distorted  with  a  nameless  fear.  "  Ah,  my  dear 
young  man  !"  he  cried,  "  come  and  be  a  son  to  me 
— the  son  of  my  age  and  desolation  !  For  God's 
sake,  don't  leave  me  to  pine  and  die  alone  !" 

I  was  greatly  surprised — and  I  may  add  I  was 
moved.  Is  it  true,  then,  that  this  dilapidated 
organism  contains  such  measureless  depths  of 
horror  and  longing  ?  He  has  evidently  a  mortal 
fear  of  death.  I  assured  him  on  my  honor  that  he 
may  henceforth  call  upon  me  for  any  service. 

8th. — Theodore's  little  turn  proved  more  serious 
than  I  expected.  He  has  been  confined  to  his 


A   LIGHT  MAN.  35 

room  till  to-day.  This  evening  he  came  down  to 
the  library  in  his  dressing-gown.  Decidedly,  Mr. 
Sloane  is  an  eccentric,  but  hardly,  as  Theodore 
thinks,  a  "  charming"  one.  There  is  something 
extremely  curious  in  his  humors  and  fancies — the 
incongruous  fits  and  starts,  as  it  were,  of  his  taste. 
For  some  reason,  best  known  to  himself,  he  took  it 
into  his  head  to  regard  it  as  a  want  of  delicacy,  of 
respect,  of  savoir-vivre — of  heaven  knows  what — 
that  poor  Theodore,  who  is  still  weak  and  languid, 
should  enter  the  sacred  precinct  of  his  study  in  the 
vulgar  drapery  of  a  dressing-gown.  The  sovereign 
trouble  with  the  bonhomme  is  an  absolute  lack  of  the 
instinct  of  justice.  He's  of  the  real  feminine  turn 
— I  believe  I  have  written  it  before — without  the 
redeeming  fidelity  of  the  sex.  I  honestly  believe 
that  I  might  come  into  his  study  in  my  night-shirt 
and  he  would  smile  at  it  as  a  picturesque  deshabille. 
But  for  poor  Theodore  to-night  there  was  nothing 
but  scowls  and  frowns,  and  barely  a  civil  inquiry 
about  his  health.  But  poor  Theodore  is  not  such 
a  fool,  either  ;  he  will  not  die  of  a  snubbing  ;  I 
never  said  he  was  a  weakling.  Once  he  fairly  saw 
from  what  quarter  the  wind  blew,  he  bore  the 
master's  brutality  with  the  utmost  coolness  and 
gallantry.  Can  it  be  that  Mr.  Sloane  really  wishes 
to  drop  him  ?  The  delicious  old  brute  !  He  under- 
stands favor  and  friendship  only  as  a  selfish  rapture 
— a  reaction,  an  infatuation,  an  act  of  aggressive, 
exclusive  patronage.  It's  not  a  bestowal,  with 
him,  but  a  transfer,  and  half  his  pleasure  in 


36  A   LIGHT  MAN. 

causing  his  sun  to  shine  is  that — being  wofully  near 
its  setting — it  will  produce  certain  long  fantastic 
shadows.  He  wants  to  cast  my  shadow,  I  suppose, 
over  Theodore  ;  but  fortunately  I  am  not  alto- 
gether an  opaque  body.  Since  Theodore  was  taken 
ill  he  has  been  into  his  room  but  once,  and  has 
sent  him  none  but  a  dry  little  message  or  two.  I, 
too,  have  been  much  less  attentive  than  I  should 
have  wished  to  be  ;  but  my  time  has  not  been  my 
own.  It  has  been,  every  moment  of  it,  at  the  dis- 
posal of  my  host.  He  actually  runs  after  me  ;  he 
devours  me  ;  he  makes  a  fool  of  himself,  and  is  try- 
ing hard  to  make  one  of  me.  I  find  that  he  will 
bear — that,  in  fact,  he  actually  enjoys — a  sort  of 
unexpected  contradiction.  He  likes  anything  that 
will  tickle  his  fancy,  give  an  unusual  tone  to  our  re- 
lations, remind  him  of  certain  historical  characters 
whom  he  thinks  he  resembles.  I  have  stepped  into 
Theodore's  shoes,  and  done — with  what  I  feel  in 
my  bones  to  be  very  inferior  skill  and  taste — all 
the  reading,  writing,  condensing,  transcribing  and 
advising  that  he  has  been  accustomed  to  do.  I 
have  driven  with  the  bonhomme  j  played  chess  and 
cribbage  with  him  ;  beaten  him,  bullied  him,  con- 
tradicted him  ;  forced  him  into  going  out  on  the 
water  under  my  charge.  Who  shall  say,  after  this, 
that  I  haven't  done  my  best  to  discourage  his  ad- 
vances, put  myself  in  a  bad  light  ?  As  yet,  my 
efforts  are  vain  ;  in  fact  they  quite  turn  to  my  own 
confusion.  Mr.  Sloane  is  so  thankful  at  having 
escaped  from  the  lake  with  his  life  that  he  looks 


A    LIGHT  MAN.  37 

upon  me  as  a  preserver  and  protector.  Confound 
it  all  ;  it's  a  bore  !  But  one  thing  is  certain,  it 
can't  last  forever.  Admit  that  he  has  cast  Theo- 
dore out  and  taken  me  in.  He  will  speedily  dis- 
cover that  he  has  made  a  pretty  mess  of  it,  and  that 
he  had  much  better  have  left  well  enough  alone. 
He  likes  my  reading  and  writing  now,  but  in  a 
month  he  will  begin  to  hate  them.  He  will  miss 
Theodore's  better  temper  and  better  knowledge— 
his  healthy  impersonal  judgment.  What  an  ad- 
vantage that  well-regulated  youth  has  over  me, 
after  all !  I  am  for  days,  he  is  for  years  ;  he  for 
the  long  run,  I  for  the  short.  I,  perhaps,  am  in- 
tended for  success,  but  he  is  adapted  for  happiness. 
He  has  in  his  heart  a  tiny  sacred  particle  which 
leavens  his  whole  being  and  keeps  it  pure  and 
sound — a  faculty  of  admiration  and  respect.  For 
him  human  nature  is  still  a  wonder  and  a  mystery  ; 
it  bears  a  divine  stamp — Mr.  Sloane's  tawdry  com- 
position as  well  as  the  rest. 

i3th.  —  I  have  refused,  of  course,  to  supplant 
Theodore  further,  in  the  exercise  of  his  functions, 
and  he  has  resumed  his  morning  labors  with  Mr. 
Sloane.  I,  on  my  side,  have  spent  these  morning 
hours  in  scouring  the  country  on  that  capital  black 
mare,  the  use  of  which  is  one  of  the  perquisites  of 
Theodore's  place.  The  days  have  been  magnificent 
— the  heat  of  the  sun  tempered  by  a  murmuring, 
wandering  wind,  the  whole  north  a  mighty  ecstasy 
of  sound  and  verdure,  the  sky  a  far-away  vault  of 
bended  blue.  Not  far  from  the  mill  at  M.,  the 


38  A    LIGHT  MAN. 

other  end  of  the  lake,  I  met,  for  the  third  time, 
that  very  pretty  young  girl  who  reminds  me  so 
forcibly  of  A.  L.  She  makes  so  lavish  a  use  of  her 
eyes  that  I  ventured  to  stop  and  bid  her  good- 
morning.  She  seems  nothing  loath  to  an  acquaint- 
ance. She's  a  pure  barbarian  in  speech,  but  her 
eyes  are  quite  articulate.  These  rides  do  me  good  ; 
I  was  growing  too  pensive. 

There  is  something  the  matter  with  Theodore  ; 
his  illness  seems  to  have  left  him  strangely  affected. 
He  has  fits  of  silent  stiffness,  alternating  with 
spasms  of  extravagant  gayety.  He  avoids  me  at 
times  for  hours  together,  and  then  he  comes  and 
looks  at  me  with  an  inscrutable  smile,  as  if  he 
were  on  the  verge  of  a  burst  of  confidence — which 
again  is  swallowed  up  in  the  immensity  of  his 
dumbness.  Is  he  hatching  some  astounding  ben- 
efit to  his  species  ?  Is  he  working  to  bring  about 
my  removal  to  a  higher  sphere  of  action  ?  Nous 
verrons  bien. 

i8th. — Theodore  threatens  departure.  He  re- 
ceived this  morning  a  letter  from  one  of  his  sisters 
— the  young  widow — announcing  her  engagement 
to  a  clergyman  whose  acquaintance  she  has  re- 
cently made,  and  intimating  her  expectation  of  an 
immediate  union  with  the  gentleman — a  ceremo- 
ny which  would  require  Theodore's  attendance. 
Theodore,  in  high  good  humor,  read  the  letter 
aloud  at  breakfast — and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  was  a 
charming  epistle.  He  then  spoke  of  his  having  to 
go  on  to  the  wedding,  a  proposition  to  which  Mr. 


A   LIGHT  MAN.  39 

Sloane  graciously  assented — much  more  than  as- 
sented. "  I  shall  be  sorry  to  lose  you,  after  so 
happy  a  connection,"  said  the  old  man.  Theodore 
turned  pale,  stared  a  moment,  and  then,  recover- 
ing his  color  and  his  composure,  declared  that 
he  should  have  no  objection  in  life  to  coming 
back. 

"  Bless  your  soul  \"  cried  the  bonhomme,  "  you 
don't  mean  to  say  you  will  leave  your  other  sister 
all  alone?" 

To  which  Theodore  replied  that  he  would  arrange 
for  her  and  her  little  girl  to  live  with  the  married 
pair.  "  It's  the  only  proper  thing,"  he  remarked, 
as  if  it  were  quite  settled.  Has  it  come  to  this, 
then,  that  Mr.  Sloane  actually  wants  to  turn  him 
out  of  the  house  ?  The  shameless  old  villain  !  He 
keeps  smiling  an  uncanny  smile,  which  means,  as  I 
read  it,  that  if  the  poor  young  man  once  departs 
he  shall  never  return  on  the  old  footing — for  all  his 
impudence  ! 

2oth. — This  morning,  at  breakfast,  we  had  a 
terrific  scene.  A  letter  arrives  for  Theodore  ;  he 
opens  it,  turns  white  and  red,  frowns,  falters,  and 
then  informs  us  that  the  clever  widow  has  broken 
off  her  engagement.  No  wedding,  therefore,  and 
no  departure  for  Theodore.  The  bonhomme  was  furi- 
ous. In  his  fury  he  took  the  liberty  of  calling  poor 
Mrs.  Parker  (the  sister)  a  very  uncivil  name. 
Theodore  rebuked  him,  with  perfect  good  taste, 
and  kept  his  temper. 

"  If  my  opinions  don't  suit  you,  Mr.  Lisle,"  the 


40  A   LIGHT  MAN. 

old  man  broke  out,  "  and  my  mode  of  expressing 
them  displeases  you,  you  know  you  can  easily  pro- 
tect yourself." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Sloane,"  said  Theodore,  "  your 
opinions,  as  a  general  thing,  interest  me  deeply, 
and  have  never  ceased  to  act  beneficially  upon  the 
formation  of  my  own.  Your  mode  of  expressing 
them  is  always  brilliant,  and  I  wouldn't  for  the 
world,  after  all  our  pleasant  intercourse,  separate 
from  you  in  bitterness.  Only,  I  repeat,  your 
qualification  of  my  sister's  conduct  is  perfectly  un- 
called for.  If  you  knew  her,  you  would  be  the 
first  to  admit  it." 

There  was  something  in  Theodore's  look  and 
manner,  as  he  said  these  words,  which  puzzled  me 
all  the  morning.  After  dinner,  finding  myself 
alone  with  him,  I  told  him  I  was  glad  he  was  not 
obliged  to  go  away.  He  looked  at  me  with  the  mys- 
terious smile  I  have  mentioned,  thanked  me,  and 
fell  into  meditation.  As  this  bescribbled  chronicle 
is  the  record  of  my  follies  as  well  of  my  hauts  faits, 
I  needn't  hesitate  to  say  that  for  a  moment  I  was 
a  good  deal  vexed.  What  business  has  this  angel 
of  candor  to  deal  in  signs  and  portents,  to  look 
unutterable  things  ?  What  right  has  he  to  do  so 
with  me  especially,  in  whom  he  has  always  pro- 
fessed an  absolute  confidence  ?  Just  as  I  was  about 
to  cry  out,  "  Come,  my  dear  fellow,  this  affectation 
of  mystery  has  lasted  quite  long  enough — favor  me 
at  last  with  the  result  of  your  cogitations  !" — as  I 
was  on  the  point  of  thus  expressing  my  impatience 


A   LIGHT  MAN.  4* 

of  his  ominous  behavior,  the  oracle  at  last  addressed 
itself  to  utterance. 

"  You  see,  my  dear  Max,"  he  said,  "  I  can't,  in 
justice  to  myself,  go  away  in  obedience  to  the  sort 
of  notice  that  was  served  on  me  this  morning. 
What  do  you  think  of  my  actual  footing  here  ?" 

Theodore's  actual  footing  here  seems  to  me  im- 
possible ;  of  course  I  said  so. 

"  No,  I  assure  you  it's  not,"  he  answered.  "  I 
should,  on  the  contrary,  feel  very  uncomfortable 
to  think  that  I  had  come  away,  except  by  my  own 
choice.  You  see  a  man  can't  afford  to  cheapen 
himself.  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?" 

"  I  am  laughing,  in  the  first  place,  my  dear  fel- 
low, to  hear  on  your  lips  the  language  of  cold  cal- 
culation ;  and  in  the  second  place,  at  your  odd 
notion  of  the  process  by  which  a  man  keeps  himself 
up  in  the  market." 

"  I  assure  you  it's  the  correct  notion.  I  came 
here  as  a  particular  favor  to  Mr.  Sloane  ;  it  was 
expressly  understood  so.  The  sort  of  work  was 
odious  to  me  ;  I  had  regularly  to  break  myself  in. 
I  had  to  trample  on  my  convictions,  preferences, 
prejudices.  I  don't  take  such  things  easily  ;  I  take 
them  hard  ;  and  when  once  the  effort  has  been 
made,  I  can't  consent  to  have  it  wasted.  If  Mr. 
Sloane  needed  me  then,  he  needs  me  still.  I  am 
ignorant  of  any  change  having  taken  place  in  his 
intentions,  or  in  his  means  of  satisfying  them.  I 
came,  not  to  amuse  him,  but  to  do  a  certain  work  ; 
I  hope  to  remain  until  the  work  is  completed.  To 


42  A    LIGHT  MAN. 

go  away  sooner  is  to  make  a  confession  of  in- 
capacity which,  I  protest,  costs  me  too  much.  I 
am  too  conceited,  if  you  like." 

Theodore  spoke  these  words  with  a  face  which  I 
have  never  seen  him  wear — a  fixed,  mechanical 
smile  ;  a  hard,  dry  glitter  in  his  eyes  ;  a  harsh, 
strident  tone  in  his  voice — in  his  whole  physiog- 
nomy a  gleam,  as  it  were,  a  note  of  defiance.  Now 
I  confess  that  for  defiance  I  have  never  been  con- 
scious of  an  especial  relish.  When  I  am  defied  I 
am  beastly.  "My  dear  man,"  I  replied,  "your 
sentiments  do  you  prodigious  credit.  Your  very 
ingenious  theory  of  your  present  situation,  as  well- 
as  your  extremely  pronounced  sense  of  your  per- 
sonal value,  are  calculated  to  insure  you  a  degree 
of  practical  success  which  can  very  well  dispense 
with  the  furtherance  of  my  poor  good  wishes." 
Oh,  the  grimness  of  his  visage  as  he  listened  to 
this,  and,  I  suppose  I  may  add,  the  grimness  of 
mine  !  But  I  have  ceased  to  be  puzzled.  Theo- 
dore's conduct  for  the  past  ten  days  is  suddenly 
illumined  with  a  backward,  lurid  ray.  I  will  note 
down  here  a  few  plain  truths  which  it  behooves 
me  to  take  to  heart — commit  to  memory.  Theo- 
dore is  jealous  of  Maximus  Austin.  Theodore 
hates  the  said  Maximus.  Theodore  has  been  seek- 
ing for  the  past  three  months  to  see  his  name  writ- 
ten, last  but  not  least,  in  a  certain  testamentary 
document  :  "  Finally,  I  bequeath  to  my  dear 
young  friend,  Theodore  Lisle,  in  return  for  inval- 
uable services  and  unfailing  devotion,  the  bulk  of 


A   LIGHT  MAN.  43 

my  property,  real  and  personal,  consisting  of — " 
(hereupon  follows  an  exhaustive  enumeration  of 
houses,  lands,  public  securities,  books,  pictures, 
horses,  and  dogs).  It  is  for  this  that  he  has  toiled, 
and  watched,  and  prayed  ;  submitted  to  intellect- 
ual weariness  and  spiritual  torture  ;  accommodated 
himself  to  levity,  blasphemy,  and  insult.  For  this 
he  sets  his  teeth  and  tightens  his  grasp  ;  for  this 
he'll  fight.  Dear  me,  it's  an  immense  weight  off 
one's  mind  !  There  are  nothing,  then,  but  vulgar, 
common  laws  ;  no  sublime  exceptions,  no  tran- 
scendent anomalies.  Theodore's  a  knave,  a  hypo- 
— nay,  nay  ;  stay,  irreverent  hand  ! — Theodore's 
a  man!  Well,  that's  all  I  want.  He  wants  fight — 
he  shall  have  it.  Have  I  got,  at  last,  my  simple, 
natural  emotion  ? 

2ist. — I  have  lost  no  time.  This  evening,  late, 
after  I  had  heard  Theodore  go  to  his  room  (I  had 
left  the  library  early,  on  the  pretext  of  having  let- 
ters to  write),  I  repaired  to  Mr.  Sloane,  who  had 
not  yet  gone  to  bed,  and  informed  him  I  should  be 
obliged  to  leave  him  at  once,  and  pickup  a  subsist- 
ence somehow  in  New  York.  He  felt  the  blow  ;  it 
brought  him  straight  down  on  his  marrow-bones. 
He  went  through  the  whole  gamut  of  his  arts  and 
graces  ;  he  blustered,  whimpered,  entreated,  flat- 
tered. He  tried  to  drag  in  Theodore's  name  ;  but 
this  I,  of  course,  prevented.  But,  finally,  why, 
why,  WHY,  after  all  my  promises  of  fidelity,  must  I 
thus  cruelly  desert  him  ?  Then  came  my  trump 
card  :  I  have  spent  my  last  penny  ;  while  I  stay, 


44  A   LIGHT  MAN. 

I'm  a  beggar.  The  remainder  of  this  extraordi- 
nary scene  I  have  no  power  to  describe  :  how  the 
bonhomme,  touched,  inflamed,  inspired,  by  the 
thought  of  my  destitution,  and  at  the  same  time 
annoyed,  perplexed,  bewildered  at  having  to  com- 
mit himself  to  doing  anything  for  me,  worked  him- 
self into  a  nervous  frenzy  which  deprived  him  of  a 
clear  sense  of  the  value  of  his  words  and  his  ac- 
tions ;  how  I,  prompted  by  the  irresistible  spirit  of 
my  desire  to  leap  astride  of  his  weakness  and  ride 
it  hard  to  the  goal  of  my  dreams,  cunningly  con- 
trived to  keep  his  spirit  at  the  fever-point,  so  that 
strength  and  reason  and  resistance  should  burn 
themselves  out.  I  shall  probably  never  again  have 
such  a  sensation  as  I  enjoyed  to-night — actually 
feel  a  heated  human  heart  throbbing  and  turning 
and  struggling  in  my  grasp  ;  know  its  pants,  its 
spasms,  its  convulsions,  and  its  final  senseless 
quiescence.  At  half-past  one  o'clock  Mr.  Sloane 
got  out  of  his  chair,  went  to  his  secretary,  opened 
a  private  drawer,  and  took  out  a  folded  paper. 
"  This  is  my  will,"  he  said,  "  made  some  seven 
weeks  ago.  If  you  will  stay  with  me  I  will  destroy 
it." 

"  Really,  Mr.  Sloane,"  I  said,  "  if  you  think  my 
purpose  is  to  exert  any  pressure  upon  your  testa- 
mentary inclinations — " 

"  I  will  tear  it  in  pieces,"  he  cried  ;  "I  will 
burn  it  up  !  I  shall  be  as  sick  as  a  dog  to-morrow  ; 
but  I  will  do  it.  A-a-h  !" 

He  clapped  his  hand  to  his  side,  as  if  in  sudden, 


A   LIGHT  MAN.  45 

overwhelming  pain,  and  sank  back  fainting  into 
his  chair.  A  single  glance  assured  me  that  he 
was  unconscious.  I  possessed  myself  of  the  paper, 
opened  it,  and  perceived  that  he  had  left  every- 
thing to  his  saintly  secretary.  For  an  instant  a 
savage,  puerile  feeling  of  hate  popped  up  in  my 
bosom,  and  I  came  within  a  hair's-breadth  of 
obeying  my  foremost  impulse — that  of  stuffing  the 
document  into  the  fire.  Fortunately,  my  reason 
overtook  my  passion,  though  for  a  moment  it  was 
an  even  race.  I  put  the  paper  back  into  the 
bureau,  closed  it,  and  rang  the  bell  for  Robert 
(the  old  man's  servant).  Before  he  came  I  stood 
watching  the  poor,  pale  remnant  of  mortality  be- 
fore me,  and  wondering  whether  those  feeble  life- 
gasps  were  numbered.  He  was  as  white  as  a  sheet, 
grimacing  with  pain — horribly  ugly.  Suddenly 
he  opened  his  eyes  ;  they  met  my  own  ;  I  fell  on 
my  knees  and  took  his  hands.  They  closed  on 
mine  with  a  grasp  strangely  akin  to  the  rigidity  of 
death.  Nevertheless,  since  then  he  has  revived, 
and  has  relapsed  again  into  a  comparatively  healthy 
sleep.  Robert  seems  to  know  how  to  deal  with 
him. 

22d. — Mr.  Sloane  is  seriously  ill — out  of  his  mind 
and  unconscious  of  people's  identity.  The  doctor 
has  been  here,  off  and  on,  all  day,  but  this  even- 
ing reports  improvement.  I  have  kept  out  of  the 
old  man's  room,  and  confined  myself  to  my  own, 
reflecting  largely  upon  the  chance  of  his  immediate 
death.  Does  Theodore  know  of  the  will  ?  Would 


46  A   LIGHT  MAN. 

it  occur  to  him  to  divide  the  property  ?  Would  it 
occur  to  me,  in  his  place  ?  We  met  at  dinner,  and 
talked  in  a  grave,  desultory,  friendly  fashion. 
After  all,  he's  an  excellent  fellow.  I  don't  hate 
him.  I  don't  even  dislike  him.  He  jars  on  me, 
//  m'agace ;  but  that's  no  reason  why  I  should  do 
him  an  evil  turn.  Nor  shall  I.  The  property  is  a 
fixed  idea,  that's  all.  I  shall  get  it  if  I  can.  We 
are  fairly  matched.  Before  heaven,  no,  we  are  not 
fairly  matched  !  Theodore  has  a  conscience. 

23d. — I  am  restless  and  nervous — and  for  good 
reasons.  Scribbling  here  keeps  me  quiet.  This 
morning  Mr.  Sloane  is  better  ;  feeble  and  uncertain 
in  mind,  but  unmistakably  on  the  rise.  I  may 
confess  now  that  I  feel  relieved  of  a  horrid  bur- 
den. Last  night  I  hardly  slept  a  wink.  I  lay 
awake  listening  to  the  pendulum  of  my  clock.  It 
seemed  to  say,  "  He  lives — he  dies."  I  fully  ex- 
pected to  hear  it  stop  suddenly  at  dies.  But  it  kept 
going  all  the  morning,  and  to  a  decidedly  more 
lively  tune.  In  the  afternoon  the  old  man  sent  for 
me.  I  found  him  in  his  great  muffled  bed,  with 
his  face  the  color  of  damp  chalk,  and  his  eyes  glow- 
ing faintly,  like  torches  half  stamped  out.  I  was 
forcibly  struck  with  the  utter  loneliness  of  his  lot. 
For  all  human  attendance,  my  villainous  self  grin- 
ning at  his  bedside  and  old  Robert  without,  lis- 
tening, doubtless,  at  the  keyhole.  The  bonhommf 
stared  at  me  stupidly  ;  then  seemed  to  know  me, 
and  greeted  me  with  a  sickly  smile.  It  was  some 
moments  before  he  was  able  to  speak.  At  last  he 


A  LIGHT  MAN.  47 

faintly  bade  me  to  descend  into  the  library,  open 
the  secret  drawer  of  the  secretary  (which  he  con- 
trived to  direct  me  how  to  do),  possess  myself  of 
his  will,  and  burn  it  up.  He  appears  to  have  for- 
gotten his  having  taken  it  out  night  before  last. 
I  told  him  that  I  had  an  insurmountable  aversion 
to  any  personal  dealings  with  the  document.  He 
smiled,  patted  the  back  of  my  hand,  and  requested 
me,  in  that  case,  to  get  it,  at  least,  and  bring  it  to 
him.  I  couldn't  deny  him  that  favor?  No,  I 
couldn't,  indeed.  I  went  down  to  the  library, 
therefore,  and  on  entering  the  room  found  Theo- 
dore standing  by  the  fireplace  with  a  bundle  of 
papers.  The  secretary  was  open.  I  stood  still, 
looking  from  the  violated  cabinet  to  the  docu- 
ments in  his  hand.  Among  them  I  recognized,  by 
its  shape  and  size,  the  paper  of  which  I  had  in- 
tended to  possess  myself.  Without  delay  I  walked 
straight  up  to  him.  He  looked  surprised,  but  not 
confused.  "  I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  to  trouble 
you  to  surrender  one  of  those  papers,"  I  said. 

"Surrender,  Maximus  ?  To  anything  of  your 
own  you  are  perfectly  welcome.  I  didn't  know 
that  you  made  use  of  Mr.  Sloane's  secretary.  I 
was  looking  for  some  pages  of  notes  which  I  have 
made  myself  and  in  which  I  conceive  I  have  a 
property." 

"  This  is  what  I  want,  Theodore,"  I  said  ;  and  I 
drew  the  will,  unfolded,  from  between  his  hands. 
As  I  did  so  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  superscription, 
"  Last  Will  and  Testament,  March.  F.  S."  He 


48  A   LIGHT  MAN. 

flushed  an  extraordinary  crimson.  Our  eyes  met. 
Somehow — I  don't  know  how  or  why,  or  for  that 
matter  why  not — I  burst  into  a  violent  peal  of 
laughter.  Theodore  stood  staring,  with  two  hot, 
bitter  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  Of  course  you  think  I  came  to  ferret  out  that 
thing,"  he  said. 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders — those  of  my  body 
only.  I  confess,  morally,  I  was  on  my  knees  with 
contrition,  but  there  was  a  fascination  in  it — a 
fatality.  I  remembered  that  in  the  hurry  of  my 
movements  the  other  evening  I  had  slipped  the 
will  simply  into  one  of  the  outer  drawers  of  the 
cabinet,  among  Theodore's  own  papers.  "  Mr. 
Sloane  sent  me  for  it,"  I  remarked. 

"  Very  good  ;  I  am  glad  to  hear  he's  well  enough 
to  think  of  such  things." 

"  He  means  to  destroy  it." 

"  I  hope,  then,  he  has  another  made." 

"  Mentally,  I  suppose  he  has." 

"  Unfortunately,  his  weakness  isn't  mental — or 
exclusively  so." 

"  Oh,  he  will  live  to  make  a  dozen  more,"  I  said. 
"  Do  you  know  the  purport  of  this  one  ?" 

Theodore's  color,  by  this  time,  had  died  away 
into  plain  white.  He  shook  his  head.  The  dogged- 
ness  of  the  movement  provoked  me,  and  I  wished 
to  arouse  his  curiosity.  "  I  have  his  commission 
to  destroy  it." 

Theodore  smiled  very  grandly.  "  It's  not  a  task 
I  envy  you,"  he  said, 


A   LIGHT  MAN.  49 

"  I  should  think  not — especially  if  you  knew  the 
import  of  the  will."  He  stood  with  folded  arms, 
regarding  me  with  his  cold,  detached  eyes.  I 
couldn't  stand  it.  "  Come,  it's  your  property  ! 
You  are  sole  legatee.  I  give  it  up  to  you."  And 
I  thrust  the  paper  into  his  hand. 

He  received  it  mechanically  ;  but  after  a  pause, 
bethinking  himself,  he  unfolded  it  and  cast  his 
eyes  over  the  contents.  Then  he  slowly  smoothed 
it  together  and  held  it  a  moment  with  a  tremulous 
hand.  "  You  say  that  Mr.  Sloane  directed  you  to 
destroy  it  ?"  he  finally  inquired. 

"  I  say  so." 

"  And  that  you  know  the  contents  ?" 

"  Exactly." 

"  And  that  you  were  about  to  do  what  he  asked 
you  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  declined." 

Theodore  fixed  his  eyes  for  a  moment  on  the 
superscription  and  then  raised  them  again  to  my 
face.  "  Thank  you,  Max,"  he  said.  "  You  have 
left  me  a  real  satisfaction."  He  tore  the  sheet 
across  and  threw  the  bits  into  the  fire.  We  stood 
watching  them  burn.  "  Now  he  can  make  an- 
other," said  Theodore. 

"  Twenty  others,"  I  replied. 

"  No,"  said  Theodore,  "  you  will  take  care  of 
that." 

"  You  are  very  bitter,"  I  said,  sharply  enough. 

"  No,  I  am  perfectly  indifferent.  Farewell." 
And  he  put  out  his  hand. 


50  A  LIGHT  MAN. 

"  Are  you  going  away  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  am.     Good-by." 

"  Good-by,  then.  But  isn't  your  departure 
rather  sudden  ?" 

"  I  ought  to  have  gone  three  weeks  ago — three 
weeks  ago."  I  had  taken  his  hand,  he  pulled  it 
away  ;  his  voice  was  trembling — there  were  tears 
in  it. 

11  Is  that  indifference  ?"  I  asked. 

"  It's  something  you  will  never  know  !"  he  cried. 
"  It's  shame  !  I  am  not  sorry  you  should  see 
what  I  feel.  It  will  suggest  to  you,  perhaps,  that 
my  heart  has  never  been  in  this  filthy  contest. 
Let  me  assure  you,  at  any  rate,  that  it  hasn't  ;  that 
it  has  had  nothing  but  scorn  for  the  base  perver- 
sion of  my  pride  and  my  ambition.  I  could  easily 
shed  tears  of  joy  at  their  return — the  return  of  the 
prodigals  !  Tears  of  sorrow — sorrow — " 

He  was  unable  to  go  on.  He  sank  into  a  chair, 
covering  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  For  God's  sake,  stick  to  the  joy  !"  I  exclaimed. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  again.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  it 
was  for  your  sake  that  I  parted  with  my  self- 
respect  ;  with  your  assistance  I  recover  it." 

"  How  for  my  sake  ?" 

"  For  whom  but  you  would  I  have  gone  as  far  as 
I  did  ?  For  what  other  purpose  than  that  of  keep- 
ing our  friendship  whole  would  I  have  borne  you 
company  into  this  narrow  pass  ?  A  man  whom  I 
cared  for  less  I  would  long  since  have  parted  with. 
You  were  needed — you  and  something  you  have 


A   LIGHT  MAN.  51 

about  you  that  always  takes  me  so — to  bring  me  to 
this.  You  ennobled,  exalted,  enchanted  the  strug- 
gle. I  did  value  my  prospect  of  coming  into  Mr. 
Sloane's  property.  I  valued  it  for  my  poor  sister's 
sake  as  well  as  for  my  own,  so  long  as  it  was  the 
natural  reward  of  conscientious  service,  and  not 
the  prize  of  hypocrisy  and  cunning.  With  another 
man  than  you  I  never  would  have  contested  such  a 
prize.  But  you  fascinated  me,  even  as  my  rival, 
You  played  with  me,  deceived  me,  betrayed  me.  I 
held  my  ground,  hoping  you  would  see  that  what 
you  were  doing  was  not  fair.  But  if  you  have  seen 
it,  it  has  made  no  difference  with  you.  For  Mr. 
Sloane,  from  the  moment  that,  under  your  magical 
influence,  he  revealed  his  nasty  little  nature,  I  had 
nothing  but  contempt." 

"  And  for  me  now  ?" 

"  Don't  ask  me.     I  don't  trust  myself." 

"  Hate,  I  suppose." 

"  Is  that  the  best  you  can  imagine  ?     Farewell." 

"  Is  it  a  serious  farewell — farewell  forever  ?" 

"  How  can  there  be  any  other  ?" 

"  I  am  sorry  this  should  be  your  point  of  view. 
It's  characteristic.  All  the  more  reason  then  that 
I  should  say  a  word  in  self-defence.  You  accuse 
me  of  having  *  played  with  you,  deceived  you,  be- 
trayed you.'  It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  quite  be- 
side the  mark.  You  say  you  were  such  a  friend  of 
mine  ;  if  so,  you  ought  to  be  one  still.  It  was  not 
to  my  fine  sentiments  you  attached  yourself,  for  I 
never  had  any  or  pretended  to  any.  In  anything 


52  A    LIGHT  MAN. 

I  have  done  recently,  therefore,  there  has  been  no 
inconsistency.  I  never  pretended  to  take  one's 
friendships  so  seriously.  I  don't  understand  the 
word  in  the  sense  you  attach  to  it.  I  don't  under- 
stand the  feeling  of  affection  between  men.  To 
me  it  means  quite  another  thing.  You  give  it  a 
meaning  of  your  own  ;  you  enjoy  the  profit  of 
your  invention  ;  it's  no  more  than  just  that  you 
should  pay  the  penalty.  Only  it  seems  to  me 
rather  hard  that  /  should  pay  it."  Theodore  re- 
mained silent,  but  he  looked  quite  sick.  "Is  it 
still  a  '  serious  farewell '  ? "  I  went  on.  "  It  seems 
a  pity.  After  this  clearing  up,  it  appears  to  me 
that  I  shall  be  on  better  terms  with  you.  No  man 
can  have  a  deeper  appreciation  of  your  excellent 
parts,  a  keener  enjoyment  of  your  society.  I  should 
very  much  regret  the  loss  of  it." 

"  Have  we,  then,  all  this  while  understood  each 
other  so  little  ?"  said  Theodore. 

''Don't  say  'we'  and  'each  other.'  I  think  I 
have  understood  you." 

"  Very  likely.  It's  not  for  my  having  kept  any- 
thing back." 

"  Well,  I  do  you  justice.  To  me  you  have  al- 
ways been  over-generous.  Try  now  and  be  just." 

Still  he  stood  silent,  with  his  cold,  hard  frown, 
it  was  plain  that,  if  he  was  to  come  back  to  me,  it 
would  be  from  the  other  world — if  there  be  one  ! 
What  he  was  going  to  answer  I  know  not.  The 
door  opened,  and  Robert  appeared,  pale,  trem- 
bling, his  eyes  starting  in  his  head. 


A    LIGHT  MAN.  53 

"  I  verily  believe  that  poor  Mr.  Sloane  is  dead  in 
his  bed  !"  he  cried. 

There  was  a  moment's  perfect  silence.  "  Amen," 
said  I.  "  Yes,  old  boy,  try  and  be  just."  Mr. 
Sloane  had  quietly  died  in  my  absence. 

24th. — Theodore  went  up  to  town  this  morning, 
having  shaken  hands  with  me  in  silence  before  he 
started.  Doctor  Jones,  and  Brooks  the  attorney, 
have  been  very  officious,  and,  by  their  advice,  I 
have  telegraphed  to  a  certain  Miss  Meredith,  a 
maiden  lady,  by  their  account  the  nearest  of  kin  ; 
or,  in  other  words,  simply  a  discarded  niece  of  the 
defunct.  She  telegraphs  back  that  she  will  arrive 
in  person  for  the  funeral.  I  shall  remain  till  she 
comes.  I  have  lost  a  fortune,  but  have  I  irre- 
trievably lost  a  friend  ?  I  am  sure  I  can't  say.  Yes, 
I  shall  wait  for  Miss  Meredith. 


YATIL 

BY  F.  D.  MILLET. 


WHILE  in  Paris,  in  the  spring  of  1878,  I  wit- 
nessed an  accident  in  a  circus,  which  for  a 
time  made  me  renounce  all  athletic  exhibitions. 
Six  horses  were  stationed  side  by  side  in  the  ring 
before  a  spring-board,  and  the  whole  company  of 
gymnasts  ran  and  turned  somersaults  from  the 
spring  over  the  horses,  alighting  on  a  mattress 
spread  on  the  ground.  The  agility  of  one  finely 
developed  young  fellow  excited  great  applause 
every  time  he  made  the  leap.  He  would  shoot  for- 
ward in  the  air  like  a  javelin,  and  in  his  flight  curl 
up  and  turn  over  directly  above  the  mattress,  drop- 
ping on  his  feet  as  lightly  as  a*bird.  This  play 
went  on  for  some  minutes,  and  at  each  round  of 
applause  the  favorite  seemed  to  execute  his  leap 
with  increased  skill  and  grace.  Finally,  he  was 
seen  to  gather  himself  a  little  farther  in  the  back- 

**#  Century  Magatine,  March,  1883. 


YA  TIL.  55 

ground  than  usual,  evidently  to  prepare  for  a  bet- 
ter start.  The  instant  his  turn  came  he  shot  out 
of  the  crowd  of  attendants  and  launched  himself 
into  the  air  with  tremendous  momentum.  Almost 
quicker  than  the  eye  could  follow  him,  he  had 
turned  and  was  dropping  to  the  ground,  his  arms 
held  above  his  head,  which  hung  slightly  forward, 
and  his  legs  stretched  to  meet  the  shock  of  the 
elastic  mattress. 

But  this  time  he  had  jumped  an  inch  too  far. 
His  feet  struck  just  on  the  edge  of  the  mattress, 
and  he  was  thrown  violently  forward,  doubling  up 
on  the  ground  with  a  dull  thump,  which  was  heard 
all  over  the  immense  auditorium.  He  remained  a 
second  or  two  motionless,  then  sprang  to  his  feet, 
and  as  quickly  sank  to  the  ground  again.  The 
ring  attendants  and  two  or  three  gymnasts  rushed 
to  him  and  took  him  up.  The  clown,  in  evening 
dress,  personating  the  mock  ringmaster,  the  con- 
ventional spotted  merryman,  and  a  stalwart  gym- 
nast in  buff  fleshings,  bore  the  drooping  form  of 
the  favorite  in  their  arms,  and,  followed  by  the  by- 
standers, who  offered  ineffectual  assistance,  carried 
the  wounded  man  across  the  ring  and  through  the 
draped  arch  under  the  music  gallery.  Under  any 
other  circumstances  the  group  would  have  excited 
a  laugh,  for  the  audience  was  in  that  condition  of 
almost  hysterical  excitement  when  only  the  least 
effort  of  a  clown  is  necessary  to  cause  a  wave  of 
laughter.  But  the  moment  the  wounded  man  was 
lifted  from  the  ground,  the  whole  strong  light  from 


5  6  YATIL. 

the  brilliant  chandelier  struck  full  on  his  right  leg 
dangling  from  the  knee,  with  the  foot  hanging 
limp  and  turned  inward.  A  deep  murmur  of  sym- 
pathy swelled  and  rolled  around  the  crowded  am- 
phitheatre. 

I  left  the  circus,  and  hundreds  of  others  did  the 
same.  A  dozen  of  us  called  at  the  box-office  to  ask 
about  the  victim  of  the  accident.  He  was  adver- 
tised as  "  The  Great  Polish  Champion  Bareback 
Rider  and  Aerial  Gymnast."  We  found  that  he 
was  really  a  native  of  the  East,  whether  Pole  or 
Russian  the  ticket-seller  did  not  know.  His  real 
name  was  Nagy,  and  he  had  been  engaged  only 
recently,  having  returned  a  few  months  before  from 
a  professional  tour  in  North  America.  He  was 
supposed  to  have  money,  for  he  commanded  a 
good  salary,  and  was  sober  and  faithful.  The  ac- 
cident, it  was  said,  would  probably  disable  him  for 
a  few  weeks  only,  and  then  he  would  resume  his 
engagement. 

The  next  day  an  account  of  the  accident  was  in 
the  newspapers,  and  twenty-four  hours  later  all 
Paris  had  forgotten  about  it.  For  some  reason  or 
other  I  frequently  thought  of  the  injured  man,  and 
had  an  occasional  impulse  to  go  and  inquire  after 
him  ;  but  I  never  went.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I 
had  seen  his  face  before,  when  or  where  I  tried  in 
vain  to  recall.  It  was  not  an  impressive  face,  but 
I  could  call  it  up  at  any  moment  as  distinct  to  my 
mind's  eye  as  a  photograph  to  my  physical  vision. 
Whenever  I  thought  of  him,  a  dim,  very  dim 


YATIL.  57 

memory  would  flit  through  my  mind,  which  I  could 
never  seize  and  fix. 

Two  months  later  I  was  walking  up  the  Rue 
Richelieu,  when  some  one,  close  beside  me  and  a 
little  behind,  asked  me  in  Hungarian  if  I  was  a 
Magyar.  I  turned  quickly  to  answer  no,  surprised 
at  being  thus  addressed,  and  beheld  the  disabled 
circus-rider.  It  flashed  upon  me,  the  moment  I  saw 
his  face,  that  I  had  seen  him  in  Turin  three  years 
before.  My  surprise  at  the  sudden  identification 
of  the  gymnast  was  construed  by  him  into  vexation 
at  being  spoken  to  by  a  stranger.  He  began  to 
apologize  for  stopping  me,  and  was  moving  away, 
when  I  asked  him  about  the  accident,  remarking 
that  I  was  present  on  the  evening  of  his  misfortune. 
My  next  question,  put  in  order  to  detain  him, 
was  : 

"  Why  did  you  ask  if  I  was  a  Hungarian  ?" 

"  Because  you  wear  a  Hungarian  hat,"  was  the 
reply. 

This  was  true.  I  happened  to  have  on  a  little 
round,  soft  felt  hat,  which  I  had  purchased  in 
Buda  Pesth. 

"  Well,  but  what  if  I  were  Hungarian  ?" 

"  Nothing  ;  only  I  was  lonely  and  wanted  com- 
pany, and  you  looked  as  if  I  had  seen  you  some- 
where before.  You  are  an  artist,  are  you  not  ?" 

I  said  I  was,  and  asked  him  how  he  guessed  it. 

"  I  can't  explain  how  it  is,"  he  said,  "  but  I 
always  know  them.  Are  you  doing  anything  ?" 


58  YATIL. 

"No,"  I  replied. 

"  Perhaps  I  may  get  you  something  to  do,"  he 
suggested.  "  What  is  your  line  ?" 

"  Figures,"  I  answered,  unable  to  divine  how  he 
thought  he  could  assist  me. 

This  reply  seemed  to  puzzle  him  a  little,  and  he 
continued  : 

"  Do  you  ride  or  do  the  trapeze  ?" 

It  was  my  turn  now  to  look  dazed,  and  it  might 
easily  have  been  gathered,  from  my  expression, 
that  I  was  not  flattered  at  being  taken  for  a  saw- 
dust artist.  However,  as  he  apparently  did  not 
notice  any  change  in  my  face,  I  explained  without 
further  remark  that  I  was  a  painter.  The  explana- 
tion did  not  seem  to  disturb  him  any  ;  he  was  evi- 
dently acquainted  with  the  profession,  and  looked 
upon  it  as  kindred  to  his  own. 

As  we  walked  along  through  the  great  open 
quadrangle  of  the  Tuileries,  I  had  an  opportunity 
of  studying  his  general  appearance.  He  was 
neatly  dressed,  and,  though  pale,  was  apparently 
in  good  health.  Notwithstanding  a  painful  limp 
his  carriage  was  erect,  and  his  movements  denoted 
great  physical  strength.  On  the  bridge  over  the 
Seine  we  paused  for  a  moment  and  leaned  on  the 
parapet,  and  thus,  for  the  first  time,  stood  nearly 
face  to  face.  He  looked  earnestly  at  me  a  moment 
without  speaking,  and  then,  shouting  "Torino"  so 
loudly  and  earnestly  as  to  attract  the  gaze  of  all  the 
passers,  he  seized  me  by  the  hand,  and  continued 
to  shake  it  and  repeat  "Torino'"  over  and  over  again. 


YA  TIL.  59 

This  word  cleared  up  my  befogged  memory  like 
magic.  There  was  no  longer  any  mystery  about 
the  man  before  me.  The  impulse  which  now  drew 
us  together  was  only  the  unconscious  souvenir  of 
an  earlier  acquaintance,  for  we  had  met  before. 
With  the  vision  of  the  Italian  city,  which  came  dis- 
tinctly to  my  eyes  at  that  moment,  came  also  to  my 
mind  every  detail  of  an  incident  which  had  long 
since  passed  entirely  from  my  thoughts. 

It  was  during  the  Turin  carnival,  in  1875,  that  I 
happened  to  stop  over  for  a  day  and  a  night,  on 
my  way  down  from  Paris  to  Venice.  The  festival 
was  uncommonly  dreary,  for  the  air  was  chilly,  the 
sky  gray  and  gloomy,  and  there  was  a  total  lack  of 
spontaneity  in  the  popular'  spirit.  The  gaudy 
decorations  of  the  Piazza  and  the  Corso,  the  num- 
berless shows  and  booths,  and  the  brilliant  cos- 
tumes, could  not  make  it  appear  a  season  of  jollity 
and  mirth,  for  the  note  of  discord  in  the  hearts  of 
the  people  was  much  too  strong.  King  Carnival's 
might  was  on  the  wane,  and  neither  the  influence 
of  the  Church  nor  the  encouragement  of  the  State 
was  able  to  bolster  up  the  superannuated  monarch. 
There  was  no  communicativeness  in  even  what 
little  fun  there  was  going,  and  the  day  was  a  long 
and  a  tedious  one.  As  I  was  strolling  around  in 
rather  a  melancholy  mood,  just  at  the  close  of  the 
cavalcade,  I  saw  the  flaming  posters  of  a  circus, 
and  knew  my  day  was  saved,  for  I  had  a  great 
fondness  for  the  ring.  An  hour  later  I  was  seated 


60  YA  TIL. 

in  the  cheerfully  lighted  amphitheatre,  and  the  old 
performance  of  the  trained  stallions  was  going  on 
as  I  had  seen  it  a  hundred  times  before.  At  last 
the  "  Celebrated  Cypriot  Brothers,  the  Universal 
Bareback  Riders,"  came  tripping  gracefully  into 
the  ring,  sprang  lightly  upon  two  black  horses,  and 
were  off  around  the  narrow  circle  like  the  wind, 
now  together,  now  apart,  performing  all  the  while 
marvellous  feats  of  strength  and  skill.  It  required 
no  study  to  discover  that  there  was  no  relationship 
between  the  two  performers.  One  of  them  was  a 
heavy,  gross,  dark-skinned  man,  with  the  careless 
bearing  of  one  who  had  been  nursed  in  a  circus. 
The  other  was  a  small,  fair-haired  youth  of  nine- 
teen or  twenty  years,  with  limbs  as  straight  and  as 
shapely  as  the  Narcissus,  and  with  joints  like  the 
wiry-limbed  fauns.  His  head  was  round,  and  his 
face  of  a  type  which  would  never  be  called  beauti- 
ful, although  it  was  strong  in  feature  and  attrac- 
tive in  expression.  His  eyes  were  small  and  twink- 
ling, his  eyebrows  heavy,  and  his  mouth  had  a 
peculiar  proud  curl  in  it  which  was  never  disturbed 
by  the  tame  smile  of  the  practised  performer.  He 
was  evidently  a  foreigner.  He  went  through  his 
acts  with  wonderful  readiness  and  with  slight 
effort,  and,  while  apparently  enjoying  keenly  the 
exhilaration  of  applause,  he  showed  no  trace  of  the 
blast  bearing  of  the  old  stager.  In  nearly  every  act 
that  followed  he  took  a  prominent  part.  On  the 
trapeze,  somersaulting  over  horses  placed  side  by 
side,  grouping  with  his  so-called  brother  and  a 


YATIL.  6 1 

small  lad,  he  did  his  full  share  of  the  work,  and 
when  the  programme  was  ended  he  came  among 
the  audience  to  sell  photographs  while  the  lottery 
was  being  drawn. 

As  usual  during  the  carnival,  there  was  a  lottery 
arranged  by  the  manager  of  the  circus,  and  every 
ticket  had  a  number  which  entitled  the  holder  to  a 
chance  in  the  prizes.  When  the  young  gymnast 
came  in  turn  to  me,  radiant  in  his  salmon  fleshings 
and  blue  trunks,  with  slippers  and  bows  to  match, 
I  could  not  help  asking  him  if  he  was  an  Italian. 

"  No,  signor,  Magyar  !"  he  replied,  and  I  shortly 
found  that  his  knowledge  of  Italian  was  limited  to 
a  dozen  words.  I  occupied  him  by  selecting  some 
photographs,  and,  much  to  his  surprise,  spoke  to 
him  in  his  native  tongue.  When  he  learned  I  had 
been  in  Hungary  he  was  greatly  pleased,  and  the 
impatience  of  other  customers  for  the  photographs 
was  the  only  thing  that  prevented  him  from  be- 
coming communicative  immediately.  As  he  left 
me  I  slipped  into  his  hand  my  lottery-ticket,  with 
the  remark  that  I  never  had  any  luck,  and  hoped 
he  would. 

The  numbers  were,  meanwhile,  rapidly  drawn, 
the  prizes  being  arranged  in  the  order  of  their 
value,  each  ticket  taken  from  the  hat  denoting 
a  prize,  until  all  were  distributed.  "  Number 
twenty-eight — a  pair  of  elegant  vases  !"  "  Number 
sixteen — three  bottles  of  vermouth  !"  "  Number 
one  hundred  and  eighty-four — candlesticks  and 
two  bottles  of  vermouth  !"  "  Number  four  hun- 


62  YATIL. 

dred  and  ten — three  bottles  of  vermouth  and  a  set 
of  jewelry  !"  "  Number  three  hundred  and  nine- 
teen— five  bottles  of  vermouth  !"  and  so  on,  with 
more  bottles  of  vermouth  than  anything  else.  In- 
deed, each  prize  had  to  be  floated  on  a  few  litres 
of  the  Turin  specialty,  and  I  began  to  think  that 
perhaps  it  would  have  been  better,  after  all,  not  to 
have  given  my  circus  friend  the  ticket,  if  he  were 
to  draw  drink  with  it. 

Many  prizes  were  called  out,  and  at  last  only 
two  numbers  remained.  The  excitement  was  now 
intense,  and  it  did  not  diminish  when  the  con- 
ductor of  the  lottery  announced  that  the  last  two 
numbers  would  draw  the  two  great  prizes  of  the 
evening,  namely  :  An  order  on  a  Turin  tailor  for  a 
suit  of  clothes,  and  an  order  on  a  jeweller  fora  gold 
watch  and  chain.  The  first  of  these  two  last  num- 
bers was  taken  out  of  the  hat. 

"  Number  twenty-five  —  order  for  a  suit  of 
clothes  !"  was  the  announcement. 

Twenty-five  had  been  the  number  of  my  ticket. 
I  did  not  hear  the  last  number  drawn,  for  the  Hun- 
garian was  in  front  of  my  seat  trying  to  press  the 
order  on  me,  and  protesting  against  appropriating 
my  good  luck.  I  wrote  my  name  on  the  pro- 
gramme for  him,  with  the  simple  address,  U.  S.  A., 
persuaded  him  to  accept  the  windfall,  and  went 
home.  The  next  morning  I  left  town. 

On  the  occasion  of  our  mutual  recognition  in 
Paris,  the  circus-boy  began  to  relate,  as  soon  as  the 
first  flush  of  his  surprise  was  over,  the  story  of  his 


YA  TIL.  63 

life  since  the  incident  in  Turin.  He  had  been  to 
New  York  and  Boston,  and  all  the  large  sea-coast 
towns  ;  to  Chicago,  St.  Louis,  and  even  to  San 
Francisco  ;  always  with  a  circus  company.  When- 
ever he  had  had  an  opportunity  in  the  United 
States,  he  had  asked  for  news  of  me. 

"  The  United  States  is  so  large  !"  he  said,  with 
a  sigh.  "  Every  one  told  me  that,  when  I  showed 
the  Turin  programme  with  your  name  on  it." 

The  reason  why  he  had  kept  the  programme  and 
tried  to  find  me  in  America  was  because  the  lottery 
ticket  had  been  the  direct  means  of  his  emigration, 
and,  in  fact,  the  first  piece  of  good  fortune  that 
had  befallen  him  since  he  left  his  native  town. 
When  he  joined  the  circus  he  was  an  apprentice, 
and  beside  a  certain  number  of  hours  of  gymnastic 
practice  daily  and  service  in  the  ring  both  after- 
noon and  evening,  he  had  half  a  dozen  horses  to 
care  for,  his  part  of  the  tent  to  pack  up  and  load, 
and  the  team  to  drive  to  the  next  stopping-place. 
For  sixteen  and  often  eighteen  hours  of  hard  work 
he  received  only  his  food  and  his  performing 
clothes.  When  he  was  counted  as  one  of  the 
troupe  his  duties  were  lightened,  but  he  got  only 
enough  money  to  pay  his  way  with  difficulty. 
Without  a  lira  ahead,  and  with  no  clothes  but  his 
rough  working-suit  and  his  performing  costume, 
he  could  not  hope  to  escape  from  this  sort  of  bond- 
age. The  luck  of  number  twenty-five  had  put 
him  on  his  feet. 

"  All   Hungarians   worship    America,"   he  said, 


64  YA  TIL. 

"  and  when  I  saw  that  you  were  an  American  I 
knew  that  my  good  fortune  had  begun  in  earnest. 
Of  course  I  believed  America  to  be  the  land  of 
plenty,  and  there  could  have  been  no  stronger 
proof  of  this  than  the  generosity  with  which  you, 
the  first  American  I  had  ever  seen,  gave  me,  a  per- 
fect stranger,  such  a  valuable  prize.  When  I  re- 
membered the  number  of  the  ticket  and  the  letter 
in  the  alphabet,  Y,  to  which  this  number  corre- 
sponds, I  was  dazed  at  the  significance  of  the  omen, 
and  resolved  at  once  to  seek  my  fortune  in  the 
United  States.  I  sold  the  order  on  the  tailor  for 
money  enough  to  buy  a  suit  of  ready-made  clothes 
and  pay  my  fare  to  Genoa.  From  this  port  I 
worked  my  passage  to  Gibraltar,  and  thence,  after 
performing  a  few  weeks  in  a  small  English  circus, 
I  went  to  New  York  in  a  fruit-vessel.  As  long  as 
I  was  in  America  everything  prospered  with  me. 
I  made  a  great  deal  of  money,  and  spent  a  great 
deal.  After  a  couple  of  years  I  went  to  London 
with  a  company,  and  there  lost  my  pay  and  my 
position  by  the  failure  of  the  manager.  In  Eng- 
land my  good  luck  all  left  me.  Circus  people  are 
too  plenty  there  ;  everybody  is  an  artist.  I  could 
scarcely  get  anything  to  do  in  my  line,  so  I  drifted 
over  to  Paris." 

We  prolonged  our  stroll  for  an  hour,  for 
although  I  did  not  anticipate  any  pleasure  or  profit 
from  continuing  the  acquaintance,  there  was  yet  a 
certain  attraction  in  his  simplicity  of  manner  and 
in  his  naive  faith  in  the  value  of  my  influence  on 


YA  TIL.  65 

his  fortunes.  Before  we  parted  he  expressed  again 
his  ability  to  get  me  something  to  do,  but  I  did 
not  credit  his  statement  enough  to  correct  the  im- 
pression that  I  was  in  need  of  employment.  At  his 
earnest  solicitation  I  gave  him  my  address,  con- 
cealing, as  well  as  I  could,  my  reluctance  to 
encourage  an  acquaintance  which  could  not  result 
in  anything  but  annoyance. 

One  day  passed,  and  two,  and  on  the  third 
morning  the  porter  showed  him  to  my  room. 

"  I  have  found  you  work  !"  he  cried,  in  the  first 
breath. 

Sure  enough,  he  had  been  to  a  Polish  acquaint- 
ance who  knew  a  countryman,  a  copyist  in  the 
Louvre.  This  copyist  had  a  superabundance  of 
orders,  and  was  glad  to  get  some  one  to  help  him 
finish  them  in  haste.  My  gymnast  was  so  much 
elated  over  his  success  at  finding  occupation  for 
me  that  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  tell  him  that  I  was  at 
leisure  only  while  hunting  a  studio.  I  therefore 
promised  to  go  with  him  to  the  Louvre  some  day, 
but  I  always  found  an  excuse  for  not  going. 

For  two  or  three  weeks  we  met  at  intervals.  At 
various  times,  thinking  he  was  in  want,  I  pressed 
him  to  accept  the  loan  of  a  few  francs,  but  he 
always  stoutly  refused.  We  went  together  to  his 
lodging-house,  where  the  landlady,  an  English- 
woman, who  boarded  most  of  the  circus  people, 
spoke  of  her  "  poor  dear  Mr.  Nodge,"  as  she 
called  him,  in  quite  a  maternal  way,  and  assured 
me  that  he  had  wanted  for  nothing,  and  should  not 


66  YA  TIL. 

so  long  as  his  wound  disabled  him.  In  the  course 
of  a  few  days  I  had  gathered  from  him  a  complete 
history  of  his  circus-life,  which  was  full  of  ad- 
venture and  hardship.  He  was,  as  I  had  thought 
then,  somewhat  of  a  novice  in  the  circus  business 
at  the  time  we  met  in  Turin,  having  left  his  home 
less  than  two  years  before.  He  had  indeed  been 
associated  as  a  regular  member  of  the  company 
only  a  few  months,  after  having  served  a  difficult 
and  wearing  apprenticeship.  He  was  born  in 
Koloszvar,  where  his  father  was  a  professor  in  the 
university,  and  there  he  grew  up  with  three 
brothers  and  a  sister,  in  a  comfortable  home.  He 
always  had  had  a  great  desire  to  see  travel,  and 
from  early  childhood  developed  a  special  fondness 
for  gymnastic  feats.  The  thought  of  a  circus  made 
him  fairly  wild.  On  rare  occasions  a  travelling 
show  visited  this  Transylvanian  town,  and  his 
parents  with  difficulty  restrained  him  from  follow- 
ing the  circus  away.  At  last,  in  1873,  one  show, 
more  complete  and  more  brilliant  than  any  one 
before  seen  there,  came  in  on  the  newly  opened 
railway,  and  he,  now  a  man,  went  away  with  it, 
unable  longer  to  restrain  his  passion  for  the  pro- 
fession. Always  accustomed  to  horses,  and  already 
a  skilful  acrobat,  he  was  immediately  accepted  by 
the  manager  as  an  apprentice,  and  after  a  season 
in  Roumania  and  a  disastrous  trip  through 
Southern  Austria,  they  came  into  Northern  Italy, 
where  I  met  him. 
Whenever  he  spoke  of  his  early  life  he  always 


YA  TIL.  67 

became  quiet  and  depressed,  and  for  a  long  time 
I  believed  that  he  brooded  over  his  mistake  in  ex- 
changing a  happy  home  for  the  vicissitudes  of 
Bohemia.  It  came  out  slowly,  however,  that  he 
was  haunted  by  a  superstition,  a  strange  and  in- 
genious one,  which  was  yet  not  without  a  certain 
show  of  reason  for  its  existence.  Little  by  little  I 
learned  the  following  facts  about  it  :  His  father 
was  of  pure  Szeklar  or  original  Hungarian  stock, 
as  dark-skinned  as  a  Hindoo,  and  his  mother  was 
from  one  of  the  families  of  Western  Hungary,  with 
probably  some  Saxon  blood  in  her  veins.  His 
three  brothers  were  dark  like  his  father,  but  he  and 
his  sister  were  blondes.  He  was  born  with  a 
peculiar  red  mark  on  his  right  shoulder,  directly 
over  the  scapular.  This  mark  was  shaped  like  a 
forked  stick.  His  father  had  received  a  wound  in 
the  insurrection  of  '48,  a  few  months  before  the 
birth  of  him,  the  youngest  son,  and  this  birth-mark 
reproduced  the  shape  of  the  father's  scar.  Among 
Hungarians  his  father  passed  for  a  very  learned 
man.  He  spoke  fluently  German,  French,  and 
Latin  (the  language  used  by  Hungarians  in  com- 
mon communication  with  other  nationalities),  and 
took  great  pains  to  give  his  children  an  acquaint- 
ance with  each  of  these  tongues.  Their  earliest 
playthings  were  French  alphabet-blocks,  and  the 
set  which  served  as  toys  and  tasks  for  each  of  the 
elder  brothers  came  at  last  to  him  as  his  legacy. 
The  letters  were  formed  by  the  human  figure  in 
different  attitudes,  and  each  block  had  a  little 


68  YA  TIL. 

couplet  below  the  picture,  beginning  with  the 
letter  on  the  block.  The  Y  represented  a  gymnast 
hanging  by  his  hands  to  a  trapeze,  and  being  a 
letter  which  does  not  occur  in  the  Hungarian 
language  except  in  combinations,  excited  most  the 
interest  and  imagination  of  the  youngsters.  Thou- 
sands of  times  did  they  practise  the  grouping  of 
the  figures  on  the  blocks,  and  the  Y  always  served 
as  a  model  for  trapeze  exercises.  My  friend,  on 
account  of  his  birth-mark,  which  resembled  a  rude 
Y,  was  early  dubbed  by  his  brothers  with  the  nick- 
name Yatil,  this  being  the  first  words  of  the  French 
couplet  printed  below  the  picture.  Learning  the 
French  by  heart,  they  believed  the  Y  a-t-il  to  be 
one  word,  and  with  boyish  fondness  for  nick- 
names saddled  the  youngest  with  this.  It  is  easy 
to  understand  how  the  shape  of  this  letter,  borne 
on  his  body  in  an  indelible  mark,  and  brought  to 
his  mind  every  moment  of  the  day,  came  to  seem 
in  some  way  connected  with  his  life.  As  he  grew 
up  in  this  belief  he  became  more  and  more  super- 
stitious about  the  letter  and  about  everything  in 
the  remotest  way  connected  with  it. 

The  first  great  event  of  his  life  was  joining  the 
circus,  and  to  this  the  letter  Y  more  or  less  directly 
led  him.  He  left  home  on  his  twenty-fifth  birth- 
day, and  twenty -five  was  the  number  of  the  letter 
Y  in  the  block-alphabet. 

The  second  great  event  of  his  life  was  the  Turin 
lottery,  and  the  number  of  the  lucky  ticket  was 
twenty-five.  "  The  last  sign  given  me,"  he  said, 


YA  TIL.  69 

"was  the  accident  in  the  circus  here."  As  he 
spoke  he  rolled  up  the  right  leg  of  his  trowsers, 
and  there,  on  the  outside  of  the  calf,  about  midway 
between  the  knee  and  ankle,  was  a  red  scar  forked 
like  the  letter  Y. 

From  the  time  he  confided  his  superstition  to 
me  he  sought  me  more  than  ever.  I  must  confess 
to  feeling,  at  each  visit  of  his,  a  little  constrained 
and  unnatural.  He  seemed  to  lean  on  me  as  a 
protector,  and  to  be  hungry  all  the  time  for  an  in- 
timate sympathy  I  could  never  give  him.  Although 
I  shared  his  secret,  I  could  not  lighten  the  burden 
of  his  superstition.  His  wound  had  entirely 
healed,  but  as  his  leg  was  still  weak  and  he  still 
continued  to  limp  a  little,  he  could  not  resume  his 
place  in  the  circus.  Between  brooding  over  his 
superstition  and  worrying  about  his  accident,  he 
grew  very  despondent.  The  climax  of  his  hope- 
lessness was  reached  when  the  doctor  told  him  at 
last  that  he  would  never  be  able  to  vault  again. 
The  fracture  had  been  a  severe  one,  the  bone  hav- 
ing protruded  through  the  skin.  The  broken  parts 
had  knitted  with  great  difficulty,  and  the  leg  would 
never  be  as  firm  and  as  elastic  as  before.  Besides, 
the  fracture  had  slightly  shortened  the  lower  leg. 
His  circus  career  was  therefore  ended,  and  he  at- 
tributed his  misfortune  to  the  ill-omened  letter  Y. 

Just  about  the  time  of  his  greatest  despondency 
war  was  declared  between  Russia  and  Turkey. 
The  Turkish  embassadors  were  drumming  up  re^ 
cruits  all  over  Western  Europe.  News  came  to 


7o  YA  TIL. 

the  circus  boarding-house  that  good  riders  were 
wanted  for  the  Turkish  mounted  gensdarmes. 
Nagy  resolved  to  enlist,  and  we  went  together  to 
the  Turkish  embassy.  He  was  enrolled  after  only 
a  superficial  examination,  and  was  directed  to  pre- 
sent himself  on  the  following  day  to  embark  for 
Constantinople.  He  begged  me  to  go  with  him  to 
the  rendezvous,  and  there  I  bade  him  adieu.  As  I 
was  shaking  his  hand  he  showed  me  the  certificate 
given  him  by  the  Turkish  embassador.  It  bore  the 
date  of  May  25,  and  at  the  bottom  was  a  signature 
in  Turkish  characters,  which  could  be  readily  dis- 
torted by  the  imagination  into  a  rude  and  scrawl- 
ing Y. 

A  series  of  events  occurring  immediately  after 
Nagy  left  for  Constantinople  resulted  in  my  own 
unexpected  departure  in  a  civil  capacity  for  the 
seat  of  war  in  the  Russian  lines.  The  line  of  curi- 
ous coincidences  in  the  experience  of  the  circus- 
rider  had  impressed  me  very  much  at  the  time, 
but  in  the  excitement  of  the  Turkish  campaign  I 
entirely  forgot  the  circumstance.  I  do  not,  indeed, 
recall  any  thought  of  Nagy  during  the  first  five 
months  in  the  field.  The  day  after  the  fall  of 
Plevna  I  rode  through  the  deserted  earthworks 
toward  the  town.  The  dead  were  lying  where  they 
had  fallen  in  the  dramatic  and  useless  sortie  of  the 
day  before.  The  dead  on  a  battle-field  always  ex- 
cite fresh  interest,  no  matter  if  the  spectacle  be  an 
every-day  one,  and  as  I  rode  slowly  along  I  studied 


YATIL.  71 

the  attitudes  of  the  fallen  bodies,  speculating  on 
the  relation  between  the  death-poses  and  the  last 
impulse  that  had  animated  the  living  frame.  Be- 
hind a  rude  barricade  of  wagons  and  household 
goods,  part  of  the  train  of  non-combatants  which 
Osman  Pasha  had  ordered  to  accompany  the  army 
in  the  sortie,  a  great  number  of  dead  lay  in  confu- 
sion. The  peculiar  position  of  one  of  these  in- 
stantly attracted  my  eye.  He  had  fallen  on  his 
face  against  the  barricade,  with  both  arms  stretched 
above  his  head,  evidently  killed  instantly.  The 
figure  on  the  alphabet-block,  described  by  the 
circus-rider,  came  immediately  to  my  mind.  My 
heart  beat  as  I  dismounted  and  looked  at  the  dead 
man's  face.  It  was  a  genuine  Turk. 

This  incident  revived  my  interest  in  the  life  of 
the  circus-rider,  and  gave  me  an  impulse  to  look 
among  the  prisoners  to  see  if  by  chance  he  might 
be  with  them.  I  spent  a  couple  of  days  in  dis- 
tributing tobacco  and  bread  in  the  hospitals  and 
among  the  thirty  thousand  wretches  herded  shelter- 
less in  the  snow.  There  were  some  of  the  mounted 
gensdarmes  among  them,  and  I  even  found  several 
Hungarians  ;  but  none  of  them  had  ever  heard  of 
the  circus-rider. 

The  passage  of  the  Balkans  was  a  campaign  full 
of  excitement,  and  was  accompanied  by  so  much 
hardship  that  selfishness  got  entirely  the  upper 
hand  of  me,  and  life  became  a  battle  for  physical 
comfort.  After  the  passage  of  the  mountain  range 
we  went  ahead  so  fast  that  I  had  little  opportunity, 


72  YA  TIL. 

even  if  I  had  the  enterprise,  to  look  among  the  few 
prisoners  for  the  circus-rider. 

Time  passed,  and  we  were  at  the  end  of  a  three 
days'  fight  near  Philippopolis,  in  the  middle  of 
January.  Suleiman  Pasha's  army,  defeated,  dis- 
organized, and  at  last  disbanded,  though  to  that 
day  still  unconquered,  had  finished  the  tragic  act 
of  its  last  campaign  with  the  heroic  stand  made  in 
the  foothills  of  the  Rhodope  Mountains,  near 
Stanimaka,  south  of  Philippopolis.  A  long  month 
in  the  terrible  cold,  on  the  summits  of  the  Balkan 
range  ;  the  forced  retreat  through  the  snow  after 
the  battle  of  Taskosen  ;  the  neck-and-neck  race 
with  the  Russians  down  the  valley  of  the  Maritza  ; 
finally,  the  hot  little  battle  on  the  river-bank,  and 
the  two  days  of  hand-to-hand  struggle  in  the  vine- 
yard of  Stanimaka — this  was  a  campaign  to  break 
the  constitution  of  any  soldier.  Days  without 
food,  nights  without  shelter  from  the  mountain 
blasts,  always  marching  and  always  fighting,  sup- 
plies and  baggage  lost,  ammunition  and  artillery 
gone — human  nature  could  hold  out  no  longer, 
and  the  Turkish  army  dissolved  away  into  the 
defiles  of  the  Rhodopes.  Unfortunately  for  her, 
Turkey  has  no  literature  to  chronicle,  no  art  to 
perpetuate  the  heroism  of  her  defenders. 

The  incidents  of  that  short  campaign  are  too  full 
of  horror  to  be  related.  Not  only  did  the  demon 
of  war  devour  strong  men,  but  found  dainty 
morsels  for  its  bloody  maw  in  innocent  women 
and  children.  Whole  families,  crazed  by  the  belief 


YA  TIL.  73 

that  capture  was  worse  than  death,  fought  in  the 
ranks  with  the  soldiers.  Women  ambushed  in 
coverts  shot  the  Russians  as  they  rummaged  the 
captured  trains  for  much-needed  food.  Little 
children,  thrown  into  the  snow  by  the  flying 
parents,  died  of  cold  and  starvation,  or  were 
trampled  to  death  by  passing  cavalry.  Such  a 
useless  waste  of  human  life  has  not  been  recorded 
since  the  indiscriminate  massacres  of  the  Middle 
Ages. 

The  sight  of  human  suffering  soon  blunts  the 
sensibilities  of  any  one  who  lives  with  it,  so  that  he 
is  at  last  able  to  look  upon  it  with  no  stronger  feel- 
ing than  that  of  helplessness.  Resigned  to  the  in- 
evitable, he  is  no  longer  impressed  by  the  woes 
of  the  individual.  He  looks  upon  the  illness, 
wounds,  and  death  of  the  soldier  as  a  part  of  the 
lot  of  all  combatants,  and  comes  to  consider  him 
an  insignificant  unit  of  the  great  mass  of  men.  At 
last  only  novelties  in  horrors  will  excite  his  feel- 
ings. 

I  was  riding  back  from  the  Stanimaka  battle-field 
sufficiently  elated  at  the  prospect  of  a  speedy 
termination  of  the  war — now  made  certain  by  the 
breaking  up  of  Suleiman's  army — to  forget  where 
I  was,  and  to  imagine  myself  back  in  my  comfort- 
able apartments  in  Paris.  I  only  awoke  from  my 
dream  at  the  station  where  the  highway  from 
Stanimaka  crosses  the  railway  line  about  a  mile 
south  of  Philippopolis.  The  great  wooden  bar- 
racks had  been  used  as  a  hospital  for  wounded 


74  YA  TIL. 

Turks,  and  as  I  drew  up  my  horse  at  the  door  the 
last  of  the  lot  of  four  hundred,  who  had  been  starv- 
ing there  nearly  a  week,  were  being  placed  upon 
carts  to  be  transported  to  the  town.  The  road  to 
Philippopolis  was  crowded  with  wounded  and 
refugees.  Peasant  families  struggled  along  with 
all  their  household  goods  piled  upon  a  single  cart. 
Ammunition  wagons  and  droves  of  cattle,  rushing 
along  against  the  tide  of  human  beings,  toward 
the  distant  bivouacs,  made  the  confusion  hopeless. 
Night  was  fast  coming  on,  and  in  company  with  a 
Cossack,  who  was,  like  myself,  seeking  the  head- 
quarters of  General  Gourko,  I  made  my  way 
through  the  tangle  of  men,  beasts,  and  wagons 
toward  the  town.  It  was  one  of  those  chill,  wet 
days  of  winter  when  there  is  little  comfort  away 
from  a  blazing  fire,  and  when  good  shelter  for  the 
night  is  an  absolute  necessity.  The  drizzle  had 
drenched  my  garments,  and  the  snow-mud  had 
soaked  my  boots.  Sharp  gusts  of  piercing  wind 
drove  the  cold  mist  along,  and  as  the  temperature 
fell  in  the  late  afternoon  the  slush  of  the  roads  be- 
gan to  stiffen,  and  the  fog  froze  where  it  gathered. 
Every  motion  of  the  limbs  seemed  to  expose  some 
unprotected  part  of  the  body  to  the  cold  and  wet. 
No  amount  of  exercise  that  was  possible  with 
stiffened  limbs  and  in  wet  garments  would  warm 
the  blood.  Leading  my  horse,  I  splashed  along, 
holding  my  arms  away  from  my  body,  and  only 
moving  my  benumbed  fingers  to  wipe  the  chill  drip 
from  my  face.  It  was  weather  to  take  the  courage 


YATIL.  75 

out  of  the  strongest  man,  and  the  sight  of  the 
soaked  and  shivering  wounded,  packed  in  the  jolt- 
ing carts  or  limping  through  the  mud,  gave  me, 
hardened  as  I  was,  a  painful  contraction  of  the 
heart.  The  best  I  could  do  was  to  lift  upon  my 
worn-out  horse  one  brave  young  fellow  who  was 
hobbling  along  with  a  bandaged  leg.  Followed 
by  the  Cossack,  whose  horse  bore  a  similar  bur- 
den, I  hurried  along,  hoping  to  get  under  cover 
before  dark.  At  the  entrance  to  the  town  numer- 
ous camp-fires  burned  in  the  bivouacs  of  the  refu- 
gees, who  were  huddled  together  in  the  shelter  of 
their  wagons,  trying  to  warm  themselves  in  the 
smoke  of  the  wet  fuel.  I  could  see  the  wounded, 
as  they  were  jolted  past  in  the  heavy  carts,  look 
longingly  at  the  kettles  of  boiling  maize  which 
made  the  evening  meal  of  the  houseless  natives. 

Inside  the  town  the  wounded  and  the  refugees 
were  still  more  miserable  than  those  we  had  passed 
on  the  way.  Loaded  carts  blocked  the  streets. 
Every  house  was  occupied,  and  the  narrow  side- 
walks were  crowded  with  Russian  soldiers,  who 
looked  wretched  enough  in  their  dripping  over- 
coats, as  they  stamped  their  rag-swathed  feet.  At 
the  corner,  in  front  of  the  great  Khan,  motley 
groups  of  Greeks,  Bulgarians,  and  Russians  were 
gathered,  listlessly  watching  the  line  of  hobbling 
wounded  as  they  turned  the  corner  to  find  their 
way  among  the  carts,  up  the  hill  to  the  hospital, 
near  the  Konak.  By  the  time  I  reached  the  Khan 
the  Cossack  who  accompanied  me  had  fallen  be- 


76  YATIL. 

hind  in  the  confusion,  and  without  waiting  for 
him  I  pushed  along,  wading  in  the  gutter,  drag- 
ging my  horse  by  the  bridle.  Half  way  up  the  hill 
I  saw  a  crowd  of  natives  watching  with  curiosity 
two  Russian  guardsmen  and  a  Turkish  prisoner. 
The  latter  was  evidently  exhausted,  for  he  was 
crouching  in  the  freezing  mud  of  the  street.  Pres- 
ently the  soldiers  shook  him  roughly  and  raised 
him  forcibly  to  his  feet,  and  half  supporting  him 
between  them  they  moved  slowly  along,  the  Turk 
balancing  on  his  stiffened  legs  and  swinging  from 
side  to  side. 

A  most  wretched  object  he  was  to  look  at.  He 
had  neither  boots  nor  fez.  His  feet  were  bare,  and 
his  trowsers  were  torn  off  near  the  knee,  and  hung 
in  tatters  around  his  mud-splashed  legs.  An  end 
of  the  red  sash  fastened  to  his  waist  trailed  far  be- 
hind in  the  mud.  A  blue  cloth  jacket  hung  loosely 
from  his  shoulders,  and  his  hands  and  wrists 
dangled  from  the  ragged  sleeves.  His  head  rolled 
around  at  each  movement  of  the  body,  and  at  short 
intervals  the  muscles  of  the  neck  would  rigidly 
contract.  All  at  once  he  drew  himself  up  with  a 
shudder  and  sank  down  in  the  mud  again. 

The  guardsmen  were  themselves  near  the  end  of 
their  strength,  and  their  patience  was  wellnigh 
finished  as  well.  Rough  mountain  marching  had 
torn  the  soles  from  their  boots,  and  great  unsightly 
wraps  of  rawhide  and  rags  were  bound  on  their 
feet.  The  thin  worn  overcoats,  burned  in  many 
places,  flapped  dismally  against  their  ankles  ;  and 


YATIL.  77 

their  caps,  beaten  out  of  shape  by  many  storms, 
clung  drenched  to  their  heads.  They  were  in  no 
condition  to  help  any  one  to  walk,  for  they  could 
scarcely  get  on  alone.  They  stood  a  moment 
shivering,  looked  at  each  other,  shook  their  heads 
as  if  discouraged,  and  proceeded  to  rouse  the  Turk 
by  hauling  him  upon  his  feet  again.  The  three 
moved  on  a  few  yards,  and  the  prisoner  fell  again, 
and  the  same  operation  was  repeated.  All  this 
time  I  was  crowding  nearer  and  nearer,  and  as  I 
got  within  a  half  dozen  paces  the  Turk  fell  once 
more,  and  this  time  lay  at  full  length  in  the  mud. 
The  guardsmen  tried  to  rouse  him  by  shaking, 
but  in  vain.  Finally,  one  of  them,  losing  all 
patience,  pricked  him  with  his  bayonet  on  the 
lower  part  of  the  ribs  exposed  by  the  raising  of  the 
jacket  as  he  fell.  1  was  now  near  enough  to  act, 
and  with  a  sudden  clutch  I  pulled  the  guardsman 
away,  whirled  him  around,  and  stood  in  his  place. 
As  I  was  stooping  over  the  Turk  he  raised  himself 
slowly,  doubtless  aroused  by  the  pain  of  the  punct- 
ure, and  turned  on  me  a  most  beseeching  look, 
which  changed  at  once  into  something  like  joy  and 
surprise.  Immediately  a  deathlike  pallor  spread 
over  his  face,  and  he  sank  back  again  with  a 
groan. 

By  this  time  quite  a  crowd  of  Bulgarians  had 
gathered  around  us,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  the  sight 
of  a  suffering  enemy.  It  was  evident  that  they  did 
not  intend  to  volunteer  any  assistance,  so  I  helped 
the  wounded  Russian  down  from  my  saddle,  and 


78  YATIL. 

invited  the  natives  rather  sternly  to  put  the  Turk 
in  his  place.  With  true  Bulgarian  spirit  they  re- 
fused to  assist  a  Turk,  and  it  required  the  argu- 
ment of  the  rawhide  (nagajka)  to  bring  them  to 
their  senses.  Three  of  them,  cornered  and  flogged, 
lifted  the  unconscious  man  and  carried  him  toward 
the  horse,  the  soldiers,  meanwhile  believing  me  to 
be  an  officer,  standing  in  the  attitude  of  attention. 
As  the  Bulgarians  bore  the  Turk  to  the  horse,  a 
few  drops  of  blood  fell  to  the  ground.  I  noticed 
then  that  he  had  his  shirt  tied  around  his  left 
shoulder,  under  his  jacket.  Supported  in  the  sad- 
dle by  two  natives  on  each  side,  his  head  falling 
forward  on  his  breast,  the  wounded  prisoner  was 
carried  with  all  possible  tenderness  to  the  Stafford 
House  hospital,  near  the  Konak.  As  we  moved 
slowly  up  the  hill  I  looked  back,  and  saw  the  two 
guardsmen  sitting  on  the  muddy  sidewalk,  with 
their  guns  leaning  against  their  shoulders — too 
much  exhausted  to  go  either  way. 

I  found  room  for  my  charge  in  one  of  the  upper 
rooms  of  the  hospital,  where  he  was  washed  and 
put  into  a  warm  bed.  His  wouncl  proved  to  be  a 
severe  one.  A  Berdan  bullet  had  passed  through 
the  thick  part  of  the  left  pectoral,  out  again,  and 
into  the  head  of  the  humerus.  The  surgeon  said 
that  the  arm  would  have  to  be  operated  on,  to  re- 
move the  upper  quarter  of  the  bone. 

The  next  morning  I  went  to  the  hospital  to  see 
what  had  become  of  the  wounded  man,  for  the  in- 
cident of  the  previous  evening  made  a  deep  impres' 


YA  TIL.  79 

sion  on  my  mind.  As  I  walked  through  the  cor- 
ridor I  saw  a  group  around  a  temporary  bed  in  the 
corner.  Some  one  was  evidently  about  to  undergo 
an  operation,  for  an  assistant  held  at  intervals  a 
great  cone  of  linen  over  a  haggard  face  on  the 
pillow,  and  a  strong  smell  of  chloroform  filled  the 
air.  As  I  approached  the  surgeon  turned  around, 
and  recognizing  me,  with  a  nod  and  a  smile  said, 
"  We  are  at  work  on  your  friend."  While  he  was 
speaking  he  bared  the  left  shoulder  of  the  wounded 
man,  and  I  saw  the  holes  made  by  the  bullet  as  it 
passed  from  the  pectoral  into  the  upper  part  of  the 
deltoid.  Without  waiting  longer,  the  surgeon 
made  a  straight  cut  downward  from  near  the 
acromion  through  the  thick  fibre  of  the  deltoid  to 
the  bone.  He  tried  to  sever  the  tendons  to  slip  the 
head  of  the  humerus  from  the  socket,  but  failed. 
He  wasted  no  time  in  further  trial,  but  made  a 
second  incision  from  the  bullet-hole  diagonally  to 
the  middle  of  the  first  cut,  and  turned  the  pointed 
flap  thus  made  up  over  the  shoulder.  It  was  now 
easy  to  unjoint  the  bones,  and  but  a  moment's 
work  to  saw  off  the  shattered  piece,  tie  the 
severed  arteries,  and  bring  the  flap  again  into  its 
place. 

There  was  no  time  to  pause,  for  the  surgeon  be- 
gan to  fear  the  effects  of  the  chloroform  on  the 
patient.  We  hastened  to  revive  him  by  every 
possible  means  at  hand,  throwing  cold  water  on 
him  and  warming  his  hands  and  feet.  Although 
under  the  influence  of  chloroform  to  the  degree 


8o  YA  TIL. 

that  he  was  insensible  to  pain,  he  had  not  been 
permitted  to  lose  his  entire  consciousness,  and  he 
appeared  to  be  sensible  of  what  we  were  doing. 
Nevertheless,  he  awoke  slowly,  very  slowly,  the 
surgeon  meanwhile  putting  the  stitches  in  the  in- 
cision. At  last  he  raised  his  eyelids  and  made  a 
movement  with  his  lips.  With  a  deliberate  move- 
ment he  surveyed  the  circle  of  faces  gathered 
closely  around  the  bed.  There  was  something  in 
his  eyes  which  had  an  irresistible  attraction  for  me, 
and  I  bent  forward  to  await  his  gaze.  As  his  eyes 
met  mine  they  changed  as  if  a  sudden  light  had 
struck  them,  and  the  stony  stare  gave  way  to  a 
look  of  intelligence  and  recognition.  Then, 
through  the  beard  of  a  season's  growth  and  behind 
the  haggard  mask  before  me,  I  saw  at  once  the 
circus-rider  of  Turin  and  Paris.  I  remember  being 
scarcely  excited  or  surprised  at  the  meeting,  for  a 
great  sense  of  irresponsibility  came  over  me,  and  I 
involuntarily  accepted  the  coincidence  as  a  matter 
of  course.  He  tried  in  vain  to  speak,  but  held  up 
his  right  hand,  and  feebly  made  with  his  fingers  the 
sign  of  the  letter  which  had  played  such  a  part  in 
the  story  of  his  life.  Even  at  that  instant  the  light 
left  his  eyes,  and  something  like  a  veil  seemed 
drawn  over  them.  With  the  instinctive  energy 
which  possesses  every  one  when  there  is  a  chance 
of  saving  human  life,  we  redoubled  our  efforts  to 
restore  the  patient  to  consciousness.  But  while 
we  strove  to  feed  the  flame  with  some  of  our  own 
vitality,  it  flickered  and  went  out,  leaving  the  hue 


YATIL.  8 1 

of  ashes  where  the  rosy  tinge  of  life  had  been. 
His  heart  was  paralyzed. 

As  I  turned  away,  my  eye  caught  the  surgeon's 
incision,  which  was  now  plainly  visible  on  the  left 
shoulder.  The  cut  was  in  the  form  of  the  letter  Y. 


THE  END  OF  NEW  YORK. 

BY  PARK  BENJAMIN. 
INTRODUCTORY. 

THE  WAR  CLOUD. 

TOWARDS  dusk  on  the  afternoon  of  Monday, 
December  5th,  1881,  the  French  steamer 
"  Canada,"  from  Havre,  arrived  at  her  pier  in  New 
York  City.  Among  the  passengers  was  a  tall, 
dark,  rather  fine-looking  man,  of  about  middle- 
age.  After  the  usual  examination  of  his  baggage 
by  the  Custom  House  officials  had  been  made,  this 
person,  accompanied  by  a  lady,  took  a  hack  at  the 
entrance  of  the  pier,  and  was  driven  to  the  Fifth 
Avenue  Hotel.  The  initials  on  the  luggage  strap- 
ped on  the  rear  of  the  vehicle  were  M.  B. 

In  conversing  with  the  driver  the  gentleman — 
for  his  appearance  and  bearing  fully  indicated  his 
right  to  the  title — spoke  English,  though  some- 

***  Fiction^  October  31, 1881. 


THE  END    OF  NEW    YORK.  83 

what  imperfectly  ;  with  the  lady  he  talked  in 
sonorous  Castilian. 

Apparently,  no  one  bestowed  any  particular  no- 
tice upon  the  pair.  They  were  two  foreigners  out 
of  the  great  throng  of  foreigners  which  lands  daily 
in  the  metropolis  ;  they  were  Spaniards  and  reason- 
ably well-to-do,  seeing  that  they  came  over  in  the 
saloon,  and  not  in  the  steerage. 

The  names  registered  at  the  hotel  were  Manuel 
Blanco  and  wife. 

Late  during  the  following  evening  the  lady  per- 
sonally came  to  the  office  seemingly  in  great  dis- 
tress. An  interpreter  being  procured,  it  was 
learned  that  Senor  Blanco,  in  response  to  a  visit- 
ing-card sent  to  his  room,  had  left  the  apartment 
shortly  after  breakfast  that  morning,  and  had  not 
since  returned. 

The  lady  explained  that  he  had  no  business 
affairs  in  New  York,  and  that  they  were  merely 
resting  in  the  city  for  a  few  days  to  recover  from 
the  effects  of  the  ocean  voyage,  before  going  to 
Charleston,  S.  C.,  their  destination. 

The  clerk  in  the  office  simply  knew  that  a 
stranger  had  called  and  sent  a  card  to  Senor 
Blanco,  and  that  the  two,  after  meeting,  had  left 
the  hotel  together. 

The  anxiety  of  Senora  Blanco  was  evidently  ex- 
cessive. She  rejected  such  commonplace  reasons 
as  that  her  husband  might  have  lost  his  way,  or 
that  some  unlooked-for  business  matters  had 
claimed  his  attention. 


84  THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK. 

"  No,  no  !"  she  repeated,  almost  hysterically  ; 
11  no  beezness.  Ah,  Dios  !  El  est£  muerte." 

A  physician  was  sent  for,  and  the  lady,  who  was 
fast  reaching  a  stage  of  nervous  prostration,  placed 
in  his  care.  The  hotel  detective  proceeded  at  once 
to  Police  Headquarters,  whence  telegrams  were 
despatched  to  the  various  precincts,  giving  a 
description  of  the  missing  man,  and  making  in- 
quiries concerning  him.  The  replies  were  all  in 
the  negative  :  no  such  person  had  come  under  the 
notice  of  the  police. 

From  what  has  thus  far  been  narrated,  it  might 
be  inferred  that  Blanco' s  absence  was  due  to  one 
of  those  strange  disappearances  which  happen  in 
great  cities.  The  inference,  however,  would  be 
wrong.  Blanco  had  not  disappeared. 

True,  his  agonized  wife  and  the  police  of  New 
York  City  had  no  trace  of  his  whereabouts  ;  but 
Mr.  Michael  Chalmette,  an  officer  detailed  by  the 
U.  S.  Marshal  in  New  Orleans  to  arrest  Leon 
Sangrado,  at  the  request  of  the  Republic  of  Chili, 
on  the  charge  of  repeatedly  committing  murder 
and  highway  robbery  in  that  country,  was  entirely 
sure  that  the  missing  person  was  sitting  beside 
him,  handcuffed  to  his  left  wrist,  and  that  both 
were  speeding  toward  New  Orleans  as  fast  as  a 
railway-car  could  take  them. 

When  the  French  steamer  "  Canada"  arrived, 
Mr.  Michael  Chalmette,  wearing  the  uniform  and 
badge  of  a  Custom  House  officer,  stationed  him- 
self by  the  gang-plank  and  narrowly  scrutinized 


THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK.  85 

each  passenger  that  came  ashore.  While  Blanco' s 
trunks  were  being  examined,  he  stood  near  that 
gentleman,  and  furtively  compared  his  features  with 
those  on  a  photograph.  It  was  Chalmette  who 
sent  the  card  to  Blanco' s  room,  in  the  hotel,  next 
day,  and  who  induced  Blanco  to  accompany  him 
in  a  carriage,  as  he  said,  to  the  Custom  House,  to 
arrange  some  irregularity  in  the  passing  of  Blan- 
co's  luggage.  The  driver  of  that  carriage,  how- 
ever, was  told  to  go  to  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad 
Depot,  in  Jersey  City. 

Blanco  evinced  some  surprise  on  being  taken 
across  the  ferry,  but  was  easily  satisfied  by  his 
companion's  explanation  that  the  branch  of  the 
Custom  House  to  be  visited  was  on  the  Jersey  side. 

When  the  station  was  reached  Chalmette  led  the 
way  to  the  waiting-room,  and  quietly  observed, 
before  the  unsuspecting  Blanco  could  finish  a  sen- 
tence beginning  : 

"  Ees  it  posseeble  zat  zees  is  ze  Custom —  " 

"  You  are  my  prisoner.  You  had  better  come 
without  making  trouble." 

Blanco  looked  at  him  aghast — not  half  compre- 
hending the  words. 

"  A  prisoner — I — for  what  ?" 

Chalmette  returned  no  answer,  but  produced  his 
warrant. 

"  But  I  no  understand — I — " 

Just  then  the  warning  bell  rung.  Chalmette 
seized  his  prisoner  by  the  arm  and  pushed  him 
through  the  gateway. 


86  THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK. 

On  the  platform  Blanco  made  some  slight  resist- 
ance. The  policeman,  whose  attention  was  at- 
tracted thereby,  after  a  few  words  with  Chalmette, 
assisted  the  latter  in  forcing  him  upon  the  train, 
which  was  already  slowly  moving  out  of  the 

depot. 

****** 

It  is  necessary  to  break  the  thread  of  the  story 
here  to  note  an  odd  coincidence.  While  there  is  a 
French  steamer  "  Canada"  belonging  to  the  Com- 
pagnie  Generate  Trans- Atlantique,  and  plying  be- 
tween New  York  and  Havre,  there  is  also  an  Eng- 
lish steamer  "  Canada"  belonging  to  the  National 
Line,  which  travels  between  New  York  and  Lon- 
don. It  so  happened  that  on  the  same  afternoon 
that  the  French  vessel  came  in,  as  before  narrated, 
the  English  steamer  of  like  name  also  arrived. 

Among  the  passengers  who  landed  from  the 
English  "  Canada"  there  was  also  a  couple,  man 
and  woman,  apparently  Spaniards,  and  there  was 
an  undeniable  resemblance  between  the  man  and 
Blanco.  The  former,  however,  had  features  cast 
in  a  much  rougher  mould,  and  his  general  bearing 
indicated  that  he  was  not  a  gentleman,  as  plainly 
as  Blanco's  did  the  reverse. 

The  luggage  of  the  pair  consisted  of  a  single 
valise,  which  was  carried  by  the  woman,  the  man 
striding  on  ahead,  leisurely  puffing  a  cigarette. 
They  hired  no  carriage,  but  walked  from  the  pier, 
across  and  up  West  Street,  and  took  a  street-car 
going  to  the  east  side  of  the  city. 


THE  END    OF  NEW    YORK.  87 

As  soon  as  they  left  the  conveyance  the  man 
spread  out  his  arms  and  expanded  his  chest  with  a 
long  breath.  The  woman  half  smiled,  and  said 
something  to  him  in  Spanish.  Then  they  mingled 
with  the  crowd  around  Tompkins  Square  and  dis- 
appeared. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Two  days  after  Blanco's  arrest  the  physician, 
now  in  constant  attendance  upon  his  wife,  filed 
the  death  certificate  of  a  stillborn  child.  Puer- 
peral fever  set  in,  and  the  life  of  the  unhappy 
woman  for  more  than  two  weeks  trembled  in  the 
balance.  During  the  first  week  a  telegram  from 
New  Orleans,  which  Blanco's  captor  had  permitted 
him  to  send,  came,  addressed  to  her. 

The  physician  opened  it  ;  but  as  she  was  almost 
constantly  unconscious,  it  was  impossible  to  inform 
her  of  its  contents  for  some  days.  Then  she  was 
simply  told  that  her  husband  had  been  heard  from, 
and  was  safe.  The  doctor  peremptorily  forbade 
any  information  being  given  her  of  Blanco's  true 
situation  ;  and  as  she  could  not  understand  the 
language,  and  so  glean  intelligence  from  the  news- 
papers, which  contained  reports  of  the  inquiry 
conducted  by  the  Commissioner,  and  the  complete 
identification  of  the  prisoner  as  Leon  Sangrado, 
she,  of  course,  remained  in  ignorance  of  what  had 
happened. 

Some  five  weeks  elapsed  before  she  was  judged 
sufficiently  strong  to  bear  the  shock  which  such 
news  would  inevitably  produce.  Then  she  was 


88  THE  END  OF  NEW    YORK. 

told  as  gently  as  possible,  all  mention  of  the  nature 
of  the  charges  against  Blanco  being  avoided. 

She  listened  in  silent  surprise. 

"  But  he  has  never  been  in  Chili  in  his  life,"  she 
insisted. 

The  old  doctor,  himself  a  Spaniard,  looked  at 
her  pityingly,  but  said  nothing. 

"  He  has  been  Consul  before  nowhere  but  at 
Trieste  ;  how  could  he  have  been  in  South 
America  ?"  she  continued. 

"  Consul  ?  Is  your  husband,  then,  in  the  Con- 
sular service  of  Spain  ?"  queried  the  doctor,  some- 
what surprised. 

"He  is  here  as  Consul  to  Charleston — in — ah, 
what  is  the  name  ? — Carolina." 

"Can  you  prove  that?"  demanded  the  phy- 
sician, somewhat  excitedly. 

"  I  can — that  is,  I  think  there  are  official  papers 
in  the  trunks.  Is  it  necessary  ?" 

"Very  necessary." 

"  Here  are  the  keys,  then." 

The  doctor  in  her  presence  opened  the  luggage, 
and  in  a  curiously  arranged  secret  compartment  in 
one  of  the  trunks  found  the  documents.  After  a 
few  moments  spent  in  looking  them  over,  he  said  : 

"  Do  you  feel  strong  to-day  ?" 

"  Not  very." 

"  I  think  you  could  travel,  however.  I  will  see 
that  your  baggage  is  properly  packed,  if  you  will 
be  prepared  to  accompany  me  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 


THE  END    OF  NEW    YORK.  89 

"But  whither?" 

"  To  Washington  ;  to  the  Spanish  Minister. 
This  is  a  serious  business." 

Under  the  supervision  of  the  doctor  the  journey 
was  safely  accomplished.  After  proper  repose 
Sefiora  Blanco  and  the  physician  proceeded  to  the 
Spanish  Legation,  and  within  a  very  short  time 
Seiior  Antonio  Mantilla,  Minister  Plenipotentiary 
and  Envoy  Extraordinary  of  His  Catholic  Majesty, 
was  in  possession  of  Blanco' s  papers,  and  of  the 
facts,  so  far  as  known  to  his  visitors,  attending 
that  gentleman's  arrest. 

Sefior  Mantilla  looked  grave  and  said  little.  He 
thanked  the  physician,  however,  warmly  for  the 
part  he  had  taken  in  the  matter,  and  calling  a 
secretary  placed  Sefiora  Blanco  in  his  charge,  with 
instructions  that  she  should  receive  the  greatest 
care  and  attention. 

He  then  desired  the  attendance  of  his  Secretary  of 
Legation,  and  the  two  officials  remained  in  earnest 
consultation  for  more  than  two  hours.  During 
this  period  several  telegrams  were  sent  to  the 
Spanish  Consul  at  New  Orleans,  and  a  long  cipher- 
message  to  the  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs  in  Mad- 
rid. 

A  few  days  later  a  lengthy  report  was  received 
from  the  Consul  at  New  Orleans,  accompanied  by 
three  letters  from  Blanco  to  his  wife,  not  one  of 
which  had  been  forwarded  from  the  jail  in  which 
he  was  confined. 

Another  consultation  was  held    at    the  Spanish 


90  THE  END    OF  NEW    YORK. 

Legation,  during  which  this  report  and  an  answer- 
ing message  from  Madrid  were  frequently  referred 
to. 

The  report  set  forth  the  facts  of  the  identifica- 
tion of  Blanco  as  Sangrado  by  the  Chilian  repre- 
sentatives, with  sufficient  certainty  to  convince  the 
U.  S.  Commissioner.  Until  a  late  period  in  the 
inquiry  Blanco  had  had  no  counsel.  He  had, 
however,  asseverated  from  the  beginning  that  he 
was  the  Consul  of  Spain  at  Charleston— a  fact  not 
believed,  because  there  was  already  a  Consul  resi- 
dent at  that  place.  Communication  with  that 
official  simply  showed  that  he  expected  to  be  trans- 
ferred to  another  post,  but  had  not  been  informed 
of  the  name  of  his  successor.  The  Commissioner, 
seeing  that  Blanco  was  doing  nothing  to  obtain 
testimony  in  his  own  favor,  quietly  arranged  that 
counsel  should  be  provided  for  him  ;  and  the 
lawyers,  as  a  matter  of  course,  at  once  sent  to  New 
York  for  Blanco' s  papers. 

Senora  Blanco,  being  then  in  a  dangerous  con- 
dition, was  helpless.  Search  was  made  through 
the  trunks,  without  finding  any  trace  of  the  docu- 
ments hidden  in  the  secret  compartment. 

The  Legation  of  Spain  in  Washington  had  in- 
formation that  Manuel  Blanco  had  been  sent  to 
assume  the  Consulship  at  Charleston,  but  no  one 
could  personally  identify  the  prisoner  to  be  the 
Manuel  Blanco  appointed. 

The  Chilian  witnesses  had  sworn  that  the  pris- 
oner was  Leon  Sangrado  in  the  most  unequivocal 


THE  END    OF  NEW    YORK.  91 

manner — and  Chalmette  deposed  that  he  saw  him 
land  from  the  "  Canada,"  in  which  vessel  he  had 
been  instructed  to  look  for  the  fugitive. 

The  facts,  as  thus  gathered  by  the  Spanish  diplo- 
matists from  the  Consul  at  New  Orleans,  from 
Senora  Blanco,  and  from  her  physician,  were  com- 
plete. The  outcome  of  their  deliberations  upon 
them  was  twofold. 

First. — The  departure  of  Senora  Blanco,  under  care 
of  an  attache  of  the  Spanish  Legation,  to 
join  her  husband  at  New  Orleans. 

Second. — The  following  diplomatic  communication 
from  the  Minister  of  Spain  to  the  Secretary 
of  State  of  the  United  States  of  America. 


LEGATION  OF  SPAIN  AT  WASHINGTON,  ) 
January  i6th,  1882.       ) 

The  undersigned,  Envoy  Extraordinary  and 
Minister  Plenipotentiary  of  His  Catholic  Majesty., 
has  the  honor  to  address  the  Honorable  Secretary 
of  State,  with  a  view  to  obtaining  from  the 
Federal  Government  reparation  for  the  arrest  of 
Senor  Don  Manuel  Blanco,  His  Catholic  Majesty's 
Consul  at  Charleston,  S.  C.,  at  the  demand  of  the 
Republic  of  Chili,  on  a  charge  of  crime  preferred 
by  the  Government  of  that  country.  The  under- 
signed is  instructed  to  protest,  in  the  most  distinct 
terms,  against  this  grave  breach  of  international 
obligations,  to  insist  upon  the  immediate  release 
of  the  said  Blanco,  and  to  require  from  the  Federal 


92  THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK. 

Government    an    apology    suited    to  the  circum- 
stances. 
The  undersigned  avails  himself,  etc., 

ANTONIO  MANTILLA. 


DEPARTMENT  OF  STATE,          ) 
WASHINGTON,  January  2oth,  1882.  ) 

SIR  :  Referring  to  your  communication  of  the  i6th 
inst.,  in  which  you  protest  against  the  arrest  of  the 
person  alleged  to  be  Seiior  Don  Manuel  Blanco, 
His  Catholic  Majesty's  Consul  at  Charleston,  at 
the  instance  of  the  Republic  of  Chili,  and  demand 
the  release  of  the  said  person,  with  a  suitable 
apology  from  this  Government  in  the  premises,  I 
have  the  honor  to  inform  you  that  the  representa- 
tives of  the  Chilian  Government  allege  the  person 
in  question  to  be  one  Leon  Sangrado,  a  fugitive 
from  justice,  charged  with  the  crimes  of  murder 
and  robbery  ;  that,  before  the  United  States  Com- 
missioner at  New  Orleans,  the  Chilian  representa- 
tives have  produced  evidence  identifying  the  pris- 
oner as  Leon  Sangrado,  which  evidence  has  war- 
ranted the  said  Commissioner  in  rendering  judg- 
ment accordingly  ;  and  that  the  proceedings  and 
judgment,  on  review  by  the  President  of  the 
United  States,  have  been  confirmed,  and  the  war- 
rant of  extradition  ordered.  I  have  the  honor  to 
transmit  herewith  a  copy  of  the  record  of  the  evi- 
dence in  the  case  for  your  Excellency's  informa- 
tion. I  have  also  to  state  that,  in  the  circum- 


THE   END    OF  NEW    YORK.  93 

stances,  this  Government  conceives  itself  to  be  act- 
ing in  a  spirit  of  strict  international  comity  with 
the  Republic  of  Chili,  and,  upon  the  representa- 
tions made  by  your  Excellency,  cannot  admit  that 
any  reparation  or  apology  is  due  to  the  Govern- 
ment of  His  Catholic  Majesty. 
I  have  the  honor,  etc., 

JAS.  G.  ELAINE, 

Secretory  of  State. 

Some  days  later  the  Spanish  Minister  forwarded 
a  note  to  the  State  Department,  wherein,  after  the 
usual  formal  recitals,  he  stated  as  follows  : 

The  undersigned  has  the  honor  to  inform  the 
Honorable  Secretary  of  State  that,  having  trans- 
mitted his  communication  by  cable  to  the  Govern- 
ment of  His  Catholic  Majesty,  he  is  now  instructed 
to  make  the  following  demands  : 

i st.  That  the  Federal  Government  shall  deliver 
Sefior  Don  Manuel  Blanco,  His  Catholic  Majesty's 
Consul  at  Charleston,  S.  C.,  alleged  to  be  Leon 
Sangrado,  a  fugitive  from  justice  from  the  Repub- 
lic of  Chili,  to  the  undersigned,  at  the  Legation  of 
Spain  at  Washington,  by  or  before  the  first  day  of 
February,  proximo. 

2.  That  the  Federal  Government  shall  address  to 
the  Government  of  His  Catholic  Majesty  a  formal 
and  solemn  apology  for  the  insult  offered  by  the 
arrest  of  said  Blanco.  And,  in  further  proof 
thereof,  shall,  on  said  first  day  of  February,  at 
noon,  cause  the  Spanish  flag  to  be  hoisted  over 


94  THE  END    OF  NEW    YORK. 

Fort  Columbus,  in  New  York  Harbor  ;  Fort  War- 
ren, in  Boston  Harbor  ;  the  Navy  Yard,  in  Wash- 
ington ;  and  at  the  mast-head  of  the  flag-ship  of 
the  North  Atlantic  squadron — then  and  there  to  be 
saluted  with  twenty-one  guns. 

I  have  the  honor,  etc., 

ANTONIO  MANTILLA. 

The  reply  sent  by  Secretary  Elaine  to  this 
peremptory  demand  was,  as  might  be  expected,  an 
equally  peremptory  refusal. 

Thereupon  the  Spanish  Minister  demanded  his 
passports,  and  with  his  Legation  left  the  country. 

The  passports  of  the  American  Minister  at 
Madrid  were  at  the  same  time  forwarded  to  him, 
and  he  returned  to  the  United  States. 

Blanco  was  delivered  to  the  Chilian  representa- 
tives, and  duly  extradited,  his  wife  accompanying 
him. 

The  anti-administration  newspapers  commented 
with  great  severity  upon  the  case,  alleging  that 
undue  haste  was  manifested  in  forwarding  the 
proceedings  ;  that  proper  opportunity  was  not 
afforded  the  accused  to  establish  his  true  identity  ; 
that  the  warrant  of  extradition  was  illegal,  inas- 
much as  it  had  been  issued  by  an  Assistant  Secre- 
tary of  State  during  the  absence  of  both  the  Presi- 
dent and  Secretary  from  Washington,  and  that, 
consequently,  there  had  been  in  fact  no  real  review 
of  the  proceedings  by  the  Executive. 

The  administration    journals,  on   the    contrary, 


THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK.  95 

found  the  extradition  of  the  prisoner  to  be  per- 
fectly within  the  letter  of  the  law  ;  but  were  not 
inclined  to  say  much  on  this  point,  preferring 
rather  to  applaud  Mr.  Elaine's  new  proof  of  a 
"vigorous  foreign  policy,"  as  exemplified  in  the 
previously  quoted  correspondence  with  the  Spanish 
Minister. 


I. 


THE  GATHERING  OF  THE  STORM. 

That  the  friendly  relations  of  two  great  nations 
should  be  ruptured  by  a  difficulty  which,  to  all  ap- 
pearances, might  easily  have  been  adjusted,  seems 
incredible  ;  but  it  should  be  remembered  that  at 
this  period  Spain  and  the  United  States  were  by 
no  means  on  the  best  of  terms.  Spanish  war- 
vessels  in  the  West  Indies  had  been  overhauling 
American  merchantmen  in  a  high-handed  way, 
which  had  already  called  forth  the  remonstrances 
of  our  Government  ;  and  the  complaints  from 
Cuba  of  the  insecurity  of  property  and  life  of 
American  citizens  had  become  more  numerous  than 
ever.  Still,  the  result  of  the  dispute  was  a  surprise 
to  the  world  ;  especially  as  the  overt  act  of  rupture 


96  THE   END    OF  NEW    YORK. 

had  come  from  Spain,  and  not  from  the  United 
States,  as  had  so  frequently  hitherto  seemed  prob- 
able. 

The  popular  excitement  throughout  the  country 
was  intense.  There  was  a  universal  demand  for 
war.  It  was  pointed  out  that  the  country  was 
never  so  prosperous,  or  better  able  to  bear  the 
burden  of  a  conflict  ;  that,  with  our  immense  re- 
sources, an  army  could  be  raised  and  a  navy 
equipped  inside  of  sixty  days  ;  that  such  a  war 
would  be  of  short  duration,  and  that  the  result 
could  be  none  other  than  the  humiliation  of  Spain, 
and  the  ceding  to  us  of  the  Spanish  West  Indies  as 
a  war  indemnity. 

The  House  of  Representatives  fairly  rung  with 
bellicose  speeches,  and  the  press,  with  a  few  excep- 
tions, reflected  the  popular  feeling. 

On  the  other  hand,  however,  there  was  a  power- 
ful party  attempting  to  stem  the  precipitancy  of 
the  nation.  The  great  moneyed  corporations  view- 
ed the  matter  with  alarm,  and  advocated  peaceful 
settlement,  or,  at  most,  inaction.  This,  however, 
was  attributed  to  their  fears  of  unsettlement  of 
values,  and  consequent  depreciation  of  their  prop- 
erty. 

The  Senate,  refusing  to  be  influenced  by  popular 
clamor,  steadily  opposed  all  hasty  legislation  orig- 
inating in  the  lower  House.  The  President  and 
Cabinet  brought  down  upon  themselves  the  bitter 
denunciation  of  the  opposition  press  for  "  coward- 
ly truckling  to  Spain,"  because  no  immediate  steps 


THE  END    OF  NEW    YORK.  97 

were  taken  to  place  army  and  navy  on  a  war  foot- 
ing, and  no  volunteers  were  called  for. 

A  month  went  by.  The  popular  excitement  in 
this  period  perceptibly  decreased  ;  and,  as  it  did 
so,  the  New  York  World  and  Tribune,  which,  from 
the  first,  had  given  but  weak  support  to  the  cry  for 
war,  became  more  outspoken  against  hostilities. 
The  bill  agreed  to  by  both  Houses  of  Congress, 
providing  for  the  immediate  construction  of  ten 
swift  armored  cruisers,  was  strongly  attacked  in 
both  journals,  and  the  arming  of  the  harbor  forts, 
and  the  elaborate  preparations  which  began  to  be 
visible  for  protecting  the  harbor  by  torpedoes,  were 
sneered  at  as  "  useless  precautions,  dictated  by  an 
unworthy  fear  of  a  nation  which  would  never  vent- 
ure to  attack  us." 

The  stocks  of  the  New  York  Central,  Western 
Union  Telegraph,  Lake  Shore,  and  other  corpora- 
tions controlled  by  Vanderbilt  and  Jay  Gould, 
which  had  fallen  during  the  excitement  of  the  pre- 
vious month,  rose  slowly,  but  steadily. 

On  the  afternoon  of  March  6th,  the  Evening  Tele- 
gram issued  an  extra,  reporting  the  sailing  from 
Corufia  of  four  Spanish  ironclads.  The  announce- 
ment on  the  London  Stock  Exchange  was  that  they 
were  going  to  Cuba. 

On  the  following  day  there  was  a  decided  fall  in 
American  securities  in  London,  and  a  weak  market 
in  Wall  Street  ;  which  degenerated  into  a  rapidly 
declining  one  when  it  became  rumored  that  Gould 
was  selling  Western  Union  short  in  large  blocks, 


98  THE  END    OF  NEW    YORK. 

and  that  Vanderbilt's  brokers  were  similarly  dis- 
posing of  N.  Y.  Central  and  other  stocks. 

At  10  o'clock  that  night  the  news  came  that 
Spain  had  formally  declared  war  upon  the  United 
States.  It  was  posted  in  all  the  hotels,  and  read 
from  the  stages  of  all  the  theatres.  The  people 
flocked  into  the  streets  en  masse.  Speeches  were 
made,  breathing  defiance  and  demands  for  an  im- 
mediate attack  upon  Spain,  before  tremendous 
crowds,  in  Madison  and  Union  Squares.  No  one 
slept  that  night. 

Next  morning  there  was  a  panic  in  Wall  Street, 
which  was  arrested,  however,  by  the  intelligence 
from  London  that,  although  Government  four-per- 
cents  had  fallen  to  86,  they  were  steady  at  that 
figure,  and  that  the  Rothschilds  and  Baring 
Brothers  were  buying  them  in  largely.  Before 
night  Congress  had  voted  a  special  appropriation 
of  a  hundred  million  dollars  for  purposes  of 
defense,  authorized  the  immediate  construction  of 
twenty  armored  ships,  and  the  President  issued  his 
proclamation,  calling  for  the  raising  of  four  hun- 
dred thousand  men  "  to  repel  an  invasion  of  the 
Union." 

Within  twenty-four  hours  the  regiments  of  the 
National  Guard  in  New  York  and  vicinity  were 
mustered  into  the  service  of  the  United  States  and 
ordered  into  camp,  under  command  of  General 
Hancock.  That  officer  at  once  began  the  construc- 
tion of  sea-coast  batteries  on  Coney  Island,  Rocka- 
way  Beach,  and  the  New  Jersey  coast.  A  crack 


THE   END   OF  NEW    YORK.  99 

city  regiment  was  detailed  to  complete  the  par- 
tially finished  fort  on  Sandy  Hook  and  throw  up 
earthworks  along  the  Peninsula  ;  but,  as  the  hands 
of  most  of  the  men  became  quite  sore  through 
wielding  shovels  and  picks,  they  were  relieved  and 
sent  to  garrison  Governor's  Island,  where  they  gave 
exhibition  drills  daily,  and,  on  Friday  evenings, 
invited  their  female  friends  to  hops  of  the  most 
enjoyable  description.  The  Hook  fort  was  subse- 
quently completed  by  a  volunteer  regiment  of 
Cuban  cigar-makers,  from  the  Bowery. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  notice  was  immediately 
given  to  all  foreign  vessels  in  port  of  the  proposed 
blocking  of  the  Narrows  and  the  Main,  Swash  and 
East  Channels  with  torpedoes,  and  forty-eight 
hours'  time  was  accorded  them  wherein  to  take 
their  departure.  The  European  steamers  were  the 
first  to  leave,  each  one  towing  from  two  to  five 
sailing-vessels.  Later  on,  General  Hancock  im- 
pressed all  the  harbor  tugs  into  service  ;  and,  by 
their  aid,  before  the  specified  period  had  elapsed, 
not  a  single  ship  floating  a  foreign  flag  remained 
in  New  York  Harbor.  A  battalion  of  army  en- 
gineers, under  command  of  General  Abbot,  and 
another  of  sailors,  under  Captain  Selfridge,  at 
once  began  operations. 

In  the  Narrows,  torpedoes  were  moored  at  dis- 
tances of  one  hundred  feet  apart,  and  were  con- 
nected with  the  shore  by  electric  wires.  At  various 
points  along  the  beach  shell-proof  huts  were  con- 
structed, to  which  these  wires  led.  In  each  hut 


100  THE  END    OF  NEW    YORK. 

was  arranged  a  camera  lucida,  so  that  a  picture  of 
the  harbor,  over  a  limited  area,  was  thrown  upon  a 
whitened  table.  In  this  way  an  observer  could 
recognize  the  instant  an  enemy's  vessel  arrived 
over  a  sunken  mine,  and  could  explode  the  latter 
by  simply  touching  a  button  which  allowed  the 
electric  current  to  pass  to  the  torpedo.  In  the 
Harbor  channels  the  torpedoes  were  so  arranged 
as  to  be  exploded  on  contact  of  an  enemy's  vessel 
with  a  partially  submerged  buoy. 

The  torpedo-stations  on  Staten  and  Coney 
Islands  and  the  Jersey  coast  were  provided  with 
movable  fish-torpedoes  of  the  Ericsson  and  Lay 
types,  intended  to  be  sent  out  against  a  hostile 
vessel,  and  manoeuvred  from  the  shore.  All  the 
steam-tugs  in  the  Harbor  were  moored  in  Gowanus 
bay,  and  each  tug  was  rigged  with  a  long  boom 
projecting  from  her  bow,  on  which  a  torpedo,  con- 
taining some  fifty  pounds  of  dynamite,  was  car- 
ried. 

With  the  tugs,  and  serving  as  flag-ship  for  the 
squadron,  was  the  U.  S.  torpedo-boat  "Alarm," 
Lieutenant-Commander  H.  H.  Gorringe. 

The  armament  of  the  sea-coast  batteries  was  not 
calculated  to  strike  terror  into  the  soul  of  any 
nation  owning  a  modern  iron-clad  vessel.  It  con- 
sisted mainly  of  old-fashioned  smooth-bore  guns,  a 
system  of  artillery  which  has  been  rejected  by 
every  European  power  as  the  weakest  and  most 
inefficient.  The  greatest  range  attainable  with  the 
best  of  these  cannon  was  8000  yards,  or  some  four 


THE  END  OF  NEW   YORK.  161 

and  one  half  miles.  At  one  quarter  this  range 
their  shot  would  be  utterly  unable  to  penetrate 
even  moderately  thin  armor.  Besides  these  guns 
there  were  a  few  ten  and  twelve-inch  rifles  of  cast- 
iron,  and  hence  of  unreliable  and  inferior  material ; 
some  old  smooth-bore  cannon,  converted  into  rifles 
by  wrought-iron  linings  ;  and  a  number  of  mortars 
and  pieces  of  small  calibre,  altogether  contemptible 
in  the  light  of  the  advances  made  in  the  art  of  war 
during  the  last  quarter  of  a  century. 

Meanwhile  the  inventors  were  not  idle,  and  the 
press  fairly  teemed  with  novel  suggestions  for  the 
defense  of  the  city.  It  was  proposed  to  run  all  the 
oil  stored  in  the  Williamsburgh  refineries  into  the 
lower  bay,  and  set  it  on  fire  when  the  enemy's  fleet 
appeared. 

The  Herald  suggested  the  raising  of  a  regiment 
of  divers  to  live  in  a  submarine  fort,  the  guns  of 
which  should  be  arranged  to  fire  upwards  into  a 
vessel  floating  above,  and  immediately  offered  to 
contribute  $250,000  to  begin  the  construction  of 
such  defenses. 

General  Newton  proposed  the  building  of  con- 
tinuous earthworks  on  both  shores  of  the  bay  and 
Narrows,  behind  which  a  broad-gauge  railroad 
should  be  constructed.  On  the  track  he  placed 
heavy  platform-cars,  each  car  carrying  one  heavy 
gun.  Embrasures  were  made  at  regular  intervals 
along  the  embankment.  His  idea  was,  that  if  a 
hostile  vessel  made  her  way  into  the  Harbor,  the 
gun-cars  should  move  along  behind  the  earth- 


162  THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK. 

works,  keeping  abreast  of  the  ship,  and  thus  pour 
into  her  a  continuous  fire.  Measures  were 
promptly  taken  to  follow  this  plan. 

Mr.  T.  A.  Edison  announced  that  he  had  in- 
vented everything  which,  up  to  that  time,  any  one 
else  had  suggested.  He  invited  all  the  reporters 
to  Menlo  Park,  and,  after  elaborately  explaining 
the  merits  of  a  new  catarrh  remedy,  showed  some 
lines  on  a  piece  of  paper,  which,  he  said,  repre- 
sented huge  electro-magnets,  which  he  proposed  to 
set  up  along  the  coast,  say,  near  Barnegat.  When 
the  enemy's  iron  ships  appeared,  he  proposed  to 
excite  these  magnets,  and  draw  the  vessels  on  the 
rocks.  Somebody  said  that  this  notion  had  been 
anticipated  by  one  Sindbad  the  Sailor,  where- 
upon Mr.  Edison  denounced  that  person  as  a 
"  patent  pirate."  He  also  said  that  these  mag- 
nets would  be  exhibited  in  working  order  next 
Christmas  Eve. 

Professor  Bell  proposed  the  "  induction  bal- 
ance," as  a  way  of  recognizing  the  approach  of  the 
enemy's  iron  vessels.  He  went  down  the  Bay  with 
his  instrument,  and  sent  back  some  telegrams 
which  were  alarming,  until  it  was  discovered  that 
the  professor  had  made  a  slight  error  in  the  direc- 
tion from  which  he  asserted  the  ships  were  coming, 
it  being  manifestly  impossible  for  them  to  sail 
overland  from  the  Pacific,  as  his  contrivance  pre- 
dicted. 

The  condition  of  affairs  in  the  city  reminded  one 
of  the  early  days  of  the  Rebellion.  Wall  Street 


THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK.  103 

was  panicky  —  chiefly  because  of  the  immense 
depreciation  in  railway  securities.  Government 
four-per-cent  bonds,  however,  had  gone  up  to 
ninety-eight.  Provisions  were  high,  and,  through 
the  stoppage  of  European  commerce,  the  cost  of 
imported  articles,  such  as  dress-goods,  tea,  etc., 
became  excessive.  Recruiting  was  going  on 
everywhere  ;  the  regiments,  as  fast  as  organized, 
being  dispatched  to  different  points  along  the  sea- 
board, or  to  swell  the  numbers  of  an  army  under 
command  of  General  Sheridan,  which  was  prepar- 
ing to  sail  to  Key  West,  to  invade  Cuba. 

During  the  month  of  March  New  York  remained 
in  a  state  of  suspense.  Army  contractors  did  a 
brisk  business  ;  but  otherwise  there  was  little 
doing.  News  was  eagerly  sought.  It  was  known 
that  Spain  was  mobilizing  her  army  and  fitting  out 
transports  ;  but  beyond  this,  and  the  dispatching 
of  the  four  ironclads,  which  had  duly  reached 
Havana,  she  had  taken  no  steps  pointing  toward 
an  invasion  of  the  United  States.  All  the  Euro- 
pean nations  had  issued  proclamations  of  neutral- 
ity, except  Russia  and  France.  England  had 
ordered  the  great  Spanish  ironclad,  "  El  Cid,"  in 
which  Sir  William  Armstrong  had  just  placed  two 
loo-ton  guns,  out  of  her  waters  inside  of  twenty- 
four  hours  after  Spain  had  declared  war  ;  and  this, 
although  the  vessel  was  in  many  respects  un- 
finished. The  Queen's  proclamation  was  most 
stringent  against  the  fitting  out  or  coaling  of  the 
vessels  of  either  belligerent,  and  a  special  Act  of 


1 64  THE  END   OF  NEW    YORtf. 

Parliament  was  passed,  inflicting  penalties  of  the 
greatest  severity  for  any  violation  of  it.  John  Bull 
evidently  proposed  to  pay  for  no  more  "  Ala- 
bamas. " 

The  first  great  news  of  the  war  came  during  the 
first  week  in  June.  The  Spanish  screw  corvette 
"  Tornado,"  six  guns,  had  sailed  from  Cartagena 
for  Havana.  Off  Cape  Trafalgar  she  encountered 
the  "Lancaster,"  flag-ship  of  the  United  States 
European  squadron,  bearing  the  flag  of  Rear- 
Admiral  Nicholson.  The  "  Lancaster"  carried  two- 
eleven-inch  and  twenty  nine-inch  old-fashioned 
smooth-bore  Dahlgren  guns.  The  action  was 
short,  sharp,  and  decisive. 

It  terminated  in  the  surrender  of  the  "  Tor- 
nado," after  the  loss  of  her  captain,  five  officers, 
and  forty  of  her  crew.  The  "  Lancaster"  was 
badly  cut  up  about  the  rigging,  but  otherwise  un- 
injured. Her  loss  was  but  five  men.  The  first 
tidings  of  this  was  the  arrival  of  the  "  Tornado" 
in  Hampton  Roads,  with  a  prize  crew  on  board, 
and  the  royal  ensign  of  Spain  floating  beneath  the 
stars  and  stripes. 

When  the  extras  announcing  the  news  were 
shouted  in  the  streets,  the  enthusiasm  of  the  people 
knew  no  bounds.  From  every  building,  from 
every  window,  the  flag  was  displayed.  Throngs 
of  excited  men  marched  through  the  avenues, 
cheering  and  shouting,  and  the  recruiting  was  re- 
newed so  vigorously,  that  New  York's  quota  of  the 
four  hundred  thousand  men  called  for  by  the 


THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK.  105 

President  was  filled  within  the  next  twenty-four 
hours  after  the  news  came. 

In  the  midst  of  this  furore,  the  bulletins 
announced  that  the  Spanish  ironclads  "  Zaragoza" 
and  "  Numancia"  had  sailed  from  Havana,  with 
no  destination  announced  ;  that  their  consorts,  the 
"  Arapiles"  and  "  Vittoria,"  together  with  three 
transports,  "  San  Quentin,"  "  Patino,"  and  "  Fer- 
rol,"  the  latter  well  laden  with  coal  and  provisions, 
were  preparing  to  follow  ;  also,  that  the  huge  "  El 
Cid "  had  been  fitted  for  sea,  and  was  about  to 
sail  from  Vigo,  Spain. 

Just  before  this  intelligence  arrived,  the  United 
States  steam  frigate  "  Franklin,"  forty-three  guns, 
carrying  the  flag  of  Vice-Admiral  Stephen  C. 
Rowan,  left  Hampton  Roads  on  a  cruise,  north- 
wardly. 

Where  were  the  Spanish  ironclads  going  ? 

On  Sunday  morning,  April  gth,  Trinity  Church 
was  crowded  with  worshipers.  The  venerable 
Bishop  of  New  York  was  present,  and  was  to 
deliver  the  sermon.  His  erect,  stately  form,  clad 
in  the  flowing  robes  of  his  office,  had  just  appeared 
in  the  pulpit,  and  he  had  spoken  the  words  of  his 
text,  when  a  commotion  in  the  rear  of  the  church 
caused  him  to  stop  and  look  up,  wondering  at  the 
unseemly  interruption. 

A  soldier  emerged  from  the  crowd,  and,  making 
his  way  to  the  Astor  pew,  handed  a  letter  to  Mr. 
John  Jacob  Astor.  The  ruddy  face  of  that  gentle- 
man blanched  as  he  read  its  contents.  Then  he 


io6  THE  END  OF  NEW    YORK. 

rose,  walked  to  the  pulpit,  and  handed  the  missive 
to  the  bishop. 

A  dead  silence  prevailed — at  last  broken  by  these 
simple  words  : 

"  Brethren,  the  war-vessels  of  the  public  enemy 
have  appeared  off  our  Harbor.  Let  us  pray." 

A  deep,  heart-felt  Amen  responded  to  the  appeal 
made  in  eloquent,  though  faltering,  tones  ;  and 
then,  quiet  and  orderly,  the  congregation  left  the 
temple.  It  was  fitting  that  such  a  prayer  should 
be  the  last  ever  offered  in  a  sanctuary  of  which, 
but  a  few  days  later,  only  a  heap  of  smoking  ruins 
remained. 

The  same  news  had  been  forwarded  to  the  other 
churches,  and  the  congregations,  dismissed,  had 
gathered  in  front  of  the  great  buNetin-boards  which 
had  been  erected  in  the  various  parts  of  the  city. 
In  huge  letters  were  the  words  : 

"  A  large  steamer,  showing  Spanish  flag,  sighted 
off  Barnegat." 

Shortly  afterwards  came  another  dispatch  : 

"  The  United  States  frigate  '  Franklin  '  has  been 
signaled  off  Fire  Island." 

Then  another  dispatch  : 

"  The  Spanish  steamer  has  gone  to  the  east- 
ward. ' ' 

And  then,  three  hours  later  : 

"  Heavy  firing  has  been  heard  from  the  south 
and  east." 


THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK,  107 

II. 

THE    BATTLE    OF    FIRE    ISLAND. 

The  "  Franklin/'  on  leaving  Fire  Island,  where 
she  had  communication  with  the  shore,  stood  to 
the  westward.  At  3  P.M.  the  mast-head  look-out 
reported  a  large  steamer  on  the  port-bow.  As  is 
customary  on  vessels  at  sea,  the  "  Franklin" 
showed  no  colors  ;  the  stranger  displayed  a  flag 
which  could  not  be  made  out. 

On  the  poop-deck  of  the  "  Franklin"  were 
Admiral  Rowan,  Captain  Greer,  commanding  the 
ship,  and  the  executive  officer,  Lieutenant-Com- 
mander Jewell. 

"  Mast-head,  there  !  can  you  make  out  her  colors 
yet  ?"  hailed  the  latter. 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Take  your  glass  and  go  aloft,  Mr.  Rodgers," 
said  Admiral  Rowan  to  his  aid  ;  "'  perhaps  you  can 
see  better." 

The  officer  rapidly  ascended  the  rigging  to  the 
foretopmast  cross-trees. 

"  It  is  the  English  flag,  sir  !"  he  shouted. 

"  Hoist  English  colors,  Captain,"  said  the 
admiral,  quietly  ;  "  and  bend  on  our  own,  ready 
to  go  up." 

The  red  cross  of  St.  George,  the  British  man-of- 
war  flag,  rose  slowly  to  the  peak. 


10  THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK. 

The  stranger  was  seen  to  alter  her  course,  and 
head  for  the  "  Franklin." 

The  admiral  turned  to  Captain  Greer  and 
nodded.  The  latter  gave  an  order  to  a  midship- 
man standing  near. 

Rat-  tat — rat-tat — rat-tat  -  tat- tat  ! 

The  quick  drum-beat  to  quarters  for  action  rang 
sharply  through  the  ship.  The  executive  officer 
took  his  speaking-trumpet  and  stationed  himself 
on  the  quarter-deck.  The  men  sprang  to  their 
guns. 

"  Silence  !  man  the  port-guns.  Cast  loose  and 
provide  !" 

A  momentary  confusion,  as  the  thirty-eight  nine- 
inch  smooth-bore  guns  on  the  main-deck,  the  four 
hundred-pound  rifles  on  the  spar-deck,  and  the 
eleven-inch  pivot  on  the  forecastle  were  cleared  of 
their  tackle,  and  got  ready  for  training.  The 
guns'  crews  then  stood  erect  and  silent  in  their 
places  beside  the  guns,  on  the  side  of  the  ship 
turned  toward  the  enemy. 

Meanwhile  the  magazine  had  been  opened,  and 
the  powder-boys  flocked  to  the  scuttles,  receiving 
cartridges  in  the  leather  boxes  slung  to  their 
shoulders.  Shell  were  hoisted  from  below.  The 
surgeon  and  his  assistants,  including  the  chaplain, 
laid  out  instruments,  and  converted  the  cock-pit 
into  an  operating-room.  The  fires  in  the  galley 
were  put  out,  and  those  under  the  boilers  urged  to 
their  fiercest  heat.  The  decks  were  sanded,  in 
grim  anticipation  of  their  becoming  slippery  with 


THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK.  109 

blood.  Tackles  and  slings  were  prepared  to  lower 
the  wounded  below.  The  Gatling  guns  aloft  were 
made  ready  to  fire  upon  the  enemy's  decks,  in  case 
the  two  vessels  came  near  enough  together. 

"  Prime  !"  shouted  the  officer  on  the  quarter-deck. 
Primers  were  placed  in  the  vents  of  the  already 
loaded  guns,  and  the  gun-captains  stepped  back, 
tautening  the  lock-strings,  and  bending  down  to 
glance  along  the  sights. 

"  Point  !  Tell  the  division  officers  to  train  on 
the  craft  that's  coming,  and  wait  orders."  This 
last  command  to  a  midshipman  aid. 

The  silence  throughout  the  great  ship  was  pro- 
found. The  gun-captains  eyed  the  approaching 
vessels  over  the  sights  of  their  guns.  Only  the 
quick  throb  of  the  engines  and  the  sough  of  the 
waves  were  audible. 

The  two  vessels  were  now  within  some  four  miles 
of  each  other.  There  was  no  question  but  that  the 
stranger  was  a  man-of-war — and  an  ironclad,  at 
that — provided  with  a  formidable  ram. 

"I  thought  so,"  suddenly  ejaculated  the 
admiral  :  "  Now  show  him  who  we  are." 

The  English  flag  had  been  replaced  by  the  red- 
yellow-and-red  bars  of  Spain.  Down  came  the  red 
cross  from  the  peak  of  the  "  Franklin  ;"  and  then, 
not  only  there,  but  from  every  mast-head,  floated 
the  stars  and  stripes. 

A  puff  of  smoke  from  the  Spaniard — a  whirr,  a 
shriek,  and  a  solid  shot  struck  the  water,  having 
passed  entirely  over  the  American  frigate. 


no  THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK. 

"  He  fires  at  long  range  !"  rematrked  the  ad- 
miral, calmly. 

"  It  would  be  useless  for  us  to  reply,"  answered 
the  captain. 

"  Clearly  so." 

"  Shall  we  stop  and  wait  for  him,  sir  ?" 

"  Wait  for  him  ?  No  !  Go  for  him  !  Four 
bells,  sir  !  Ring  four  bells  and  go  ahead  fast  !' 

The  clang  of  the  engine-bell  resounded  through 
the  ship  ;  the  thump  of  the  machinery  grew  more 
rapid  ;  the  whole  vessel  thrilled  and  shook,  as  if 
eager  for  the  attack. 

The  distance  between  the  two  ships  was  reduced 
to  about  two  miles. 

Again  the  Spaniard  fired.  The  shot  struck  the 
"  Franklin"  broad  on  her  port-bow,  knocked  over 
a  gun,  killed  six  men,  and  passed  through  the 
other  side  of  the  ship. 

Still  the  '*  Franklin"  pressed  on. 

Crash  !  a  huge  shell  from  an  Armstrong  eigh- 
teen-ton gun  burst  between  the  fore  and  main- 
masts ;  the  bow  pivot-gun  was  dismounted  ;  ten 
men  of  her  crew  down  ;  the  maintopmast  stays 
cut,  and  the  maintopmast  tottering.  Crash  !  An- 
other shell,  and  the  jib-boom  hangs  dragging 
under  the  bows  ;  the  fore  topgallantmast  is  car- 
ried away.  Men  hacked  at  the  rigging  to  clear 
away  the  wreck  which  now  impeded  the  ship's 
advance. 

"  Now  let  him  have  it,"  said  the  admiral, 
quietly. 


THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK.  Ill 

The  captain  speaks  to  the  executive  officer, 
who  shouts  through  his  trumpet  :  "  Port  guns  ! 
Ready!  Fire!!" 

The  concussion  of  the  explosion  made  the  ship 
stagger  for  a  moment. 

When  the  smoke  cleared  away,  the  Spaniard's 
mizzenmast  was  seen  dragging  overboard  ;  but 
otherwise  no  damage  had  been  inflicted. 

"  His  armor  is  too  thick  for  us,"  gravely  re- 
marked the  admiral;  "get  boom  torpedoes  over 
the  bows  !" 

"  All  ready,  now,  sir,'*  reported  the  captain. 

"  Continue  firing,  and  keep  right  for  him." 

"  Shall  we  ram  him,  sir  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  as  straight  amidships  as  you  can." 

The  "  Franklin"  now  poured  in  her  fire  with  all 
possible  rapidity  ;  but  it  was  evident  that  her  shot 
made  little  or  no  impression  on  the  massive  iron 
shield  of  her  antagonist,  although  it  played  havoc 
amid  his  rigging.  Another  fact  now  became  ap- 
parent— that  the  Spaniard  was  much  the  faster 
vessel  of  the  two  ;  for  he  was  evidently  nearing 
the  "  Franklin"  more  quickly  than  the  *'  Franklin" 
was  approaching  him. 

44  Do  you  know  who  that  ship  is?"  asked  the 
admiral. 

"The  *  Numancia,'  sir,"  replied  the  captain; 
41  her  armament  is  immensely  better  than  ours. 
She  has  twenty-five  Armstrong  guns." 

Crash !  crash  I  Two  more  shells  struck  the 
wooden  hull  of  the  '*  Franklin"  between  the  fore 


112  THE  END  OF  NEW    YORK. 

and  mainmasts,  tearing  a  great  rent  in  her  side  and 
literally  annihilating  the  crews  of  four  guns. 

"  There  is  three  feet  of  water  in  the  hold,  sir, 
and  it  is  gaining!"  shouted  the  carpenter  at  the 
pump-well. 

Men  were  sent  at  once  to  the  pumps. 

Crash  !  This  time  a  double  explosion,  followed 
by  dense  clouds  of  steam.  Men,  scalded  and  hor- 
ribly burned,  climbed  up  the  ladders  from  below. 

"  Our  boilers  are  gone,"  reported  the  captain. 

"  Keep  her  broadside  toward  the  enemy,  sir," 
returned  the  admiral. 

The  guns  of  the  "  Franklin"  were  now  firing 
slowly.  Their  smoke  overhung  the  vessel  so  that 
the  Spaniard  could  not  be  seen,  but  the  reports  of 
his  cannon  sounded  closer  and  closer. 

Suddenly  the  huge  prow  of  the  "  Numancia" 
loomed  up  close  aboard  the  "  Franklin." 

"  Starboard  J  Hard  a  starboard  !"  shouted  the 
admiral. 

It  was  too  late.  There  was  no  one  at  the  helm. 
A  shell,  bursting  close  to  the  wheel,  had  killed  the 
helmsman,  and  a  fragment  had  buried  itself  in  the 
captain's  breast. 

The  admiral  himself  turned  to  go  toward  the 
wheel,  but  suddenly  staggered  and  pitched  for- 
ward, dead. 

Then  came  the  frightful  explosion  of  the 
"  Numancia's"  bow-torpedo,  striking  the  ill-fated 
frigate  ;  and  then  the  crushing  and  splintering  of 
timbers  under  the  fearful  stroke  of  the  ram. 


THE  END   OF  NEW   YORK.  113 

Five  minutes  afterwards  the  Spanish  war-ship 
was  alone.  Slowly  the  "  Franklin"  sank — her 
lofty  mast-heads  going  under  with  the  stars  and 
stripes  still  proudly  floating  from  them.  The 
"  Numancia"  lowered  her  boats  to  pick  up  sur- 
vivors. They  returned  with  one  officer  and  two 
seamen — all  that  remained  of  the  crew  of  nearly 
one  thousand  souls. 

The  American  flag  ship  had  been  sunk  by  a 
fourth-rate  European  ironclad — the  first  practical 
proof  of  the  miserably  short-sighted  policy  of  a 
nation  of  fifty  millions  of  inhabitants,  with  an 
enormous  coast  line  and  innumerable  ports  to  be 
protected,  relying  for  its  safety  upon  a  navy  the 
fifty-five  available  vessels  of  which  are  too  slow  to 
run  away,  and  too  lightly  armed  and  too  weakly 
built  to  defend  themselves. 

The  "Numancia"  hoisted  her  boats  and  stood  to 
the  westward.  Shortly  afterward  she  exchanged 
signals  with  the  "  Zaragoza,"  "  Arapiles"  and 
"  Vittoria."  The  war-vessels  drew  together,  the 
transports  came  alongside  of  them,  and  fresh  sup- 
plies of  coal  and  provisions  were  delivered.  Then 
the  transports  headed  to  the  south,  and  the  men- 
of-war  laid  their  course  for  New  York. 


H4  THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK. 


III. 


THE   METROPOLIS   BELEAGUERED. 

Three  ships  of  the  Spanish  squadron  named  were 
armed  with  Armstrong  guns.  Their  combined 
batteries  aggregated  eight  cannon  of  eighteen  tons, 
four  of  twelve  tons,  eleven  of  nine  tons,  and  twenty- 
eight  of  seven  tons.  The  "  Zaragoza"  carried 
twenty  guns  of  another  pattern,  ranging  in  calibre 
from  eleven  to  seven  and  three-fourths  inches. 
The  total  number  of  cannon  which  would  thus  be 
brought  to  bear  upon  New  York  and  its  suburbs 
was  seventy-one. 

The  shot  of  the  Armstrong  guns  above  named 
vary  in  weight  from  four  hundred  to  one  hundred 
and  fifteen  pounds.  If  the  entire  number  of  guns 
should  each  deliver  one  shot,  the  total  amount  of 
iron  projected  would  exceed  six  tons  in  weight. 

The  arrival  of  the  Spanish  vessels  was  not  known 
until  dawn  of  the  morning  of  April  nth.  Then 
they  were  descried  on  the  horizon  by  the  watchers 
at  Sandy  Hook.  At  first  sight  it  was  supposed 
that  they  had  encountered  heavy  weather  and  lost 
their  light  spars  ;  but,  as  they  approached  nearer, 
it  was  seen  that  each  ship  had  sent  down  all  her 
upper  rigging,  and  had  housed  topmasts. 

There  was  no  mistaking  what  this  meant.  It 
was  the  stripping  for  battle, 


THE  END    OF  NEW    YORK,  115 

It  was  also  noticed  that  the  ships  steamed  very 
slowly  in  single  file  ;  that  from  the  bows  of  each 
projected  a  fork-like  contrivance,  and  that  in  ad- 
vance of  the  leader  were  several  steam-launches, 
between  which,  and  crossing  the  path  of  the  large 
vessel,  extended  hawsers  which  dipped  into  the 
water.  Evidently  the  new-comers  had  a  whole- 
some dread  of  torpedoes,  and  hence  the  use  of  bow 
torpedo-catchers  and  the  dragging-ropes. 

No  flag  of  any  sort  was  exhibited. 

Meanwhile  the  guns  of  all  the  sea-coast  batteries 
along  the  shores  had  been  manned,  ready  to  fire 
upon  the  huge  black  monsters  as  soon  as  they 
should  come  within  range.  The  order  had  been 
given  to  commence  firing  on  the  hoisting  of  a  flag 
and  on  the  discharge  of  a  heavy  gun  from  the 
signal  station  on  Sandy  Hook,  where  General 
Hancock  had  posted  himself  with  his  staff. 

In  the  city  the  time  for  excitement  had  passed. 
The  business  section  was  deserted,  most  of  the  men 
being  either  in  the  fortifications  or  under  arms  in 
the  camps,  ready  to  move  as  directed  to  repel  any 
attempt  on  the  part  of  the  enemy  to  effect  a  land- 
ing. 

There  had  been  no  general  exodus  from  New 
York,  as  it  was  not  believed  possible  that  the 
enemy's  missiles  could  reach  the  city  proper.  In 
Brooklyn,  however,  but  few  people  remained.  All 
the  churches  in  the  city  were  open,  and  with  sin- 
gular unanimity  the  people  flocked  into  them.  No 
public  conveyances  were  running  ;  few  vehicles 


n6  THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK. 

moved  through  the  streets.  The  silence  was  like 
that  of  a  summer  holiday,  when  the  people  are  in 
the  suburbs,  pleasure-seeking. 

"  They  seem  to  have  stopped,  general,"  said  an 
aid  who  was  attentively  watching  the  advance  of 
the  Spanish  vessels  through  his  glass. 

"  They  are  a  long  way  out  of  our  range,"  re- 
marked General  Hancock.  "  We  have  nothing 
that  carries  far  enough  to  injure  them.  They  are 
fully  five  miles  out." 

"  Now  they  go  ahead  again.  No,  they  are 
turning,"  said  the  aid. 

The  leading  ship  had  ported  her  helm,  and,  fol- 
lowed by  the  others,  filed  to  the  eastward,  bring- 
ing the  port  broadsides  to  bear  upon  the  Long 
Island  batteries. 

"  They  certainly  are  not  going  into  action 
there,"  said  the  general. 

A  cloud  of  white  smoke  arose  from  the  bow  of 
the  leading  vessel,  and  then  across  the  water  came 
the  deep  "  boom"  of  a  heavy  gun. 

"Why,  that  fellow  has  fired  out  to  sea,"  ex- 
claimed one  of  the  general's  staff. 

"  No,  it  was  a  blank  cartridge.  He  fired  to 
attract  attention.  See  !  there  goes  a  white  flag  up 
to  his  mast-head  !"  said  the  officer  at  the  telescope  : 
"  A  boat  with  a  flag-of-truce  is  putting  off, 
general." 

"  Send  a  launch  out  to  meet  it,"  said  Hancock, 
shortly  :  "  and  see  that  it  does  not  come  nearer 
than  a  mile  or  so  from  the  shore." 


THE  EtfD   OF  NEW   YORK.  117 

A  few  minutes  after,  the  steam-yacht  "  Ideal," 
which  had  been  offered  by  its  owner  as  a  dispatch 
boat  to  the  general,  was  swiftly  running  towards 
the  Spanish  messenger. 

The  aid  at  the  telescope  saw  an  officer  step  from 
the  Spanish  boat  into  the  yacht,  and  then  the  latter 
put  back  to  the  Hook,  the  enemy's  launch  remain- 
ing where  she  was. 

The  Spanish  officer  was  conducted  to  the  pres- 
ence of  the  general.  In  excellent  English,  he 
announced  himself  as  the  Fleet  Captain  and  Chief- 
of-Staff  of  the  admiral  commanding  the  Spanish 
squadron  present,  and  with  much  ceremony  pre- 
sented the  communication  with  which  he  was 
charged. 

The  general  received  the  missive  courteously  and 
opened  it.  The  expression  of  astonishment  which 
came  over  his  face  as  he  read  it  for  a  moment  gave 
place  to  one  of  anger.  His  eyes  flashed,  his  face 
reddened,  and  his  fingers  nervously  played  with 
the  end  of  his  moustache.  Then,  as  he  read  it  over 
the  second  time,  a  rather  contemptuous  smile 
seemed  to  lurk  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

The  staff  stood  by  in  silent  but  eager  anticipa- 
tion. The  general  held  the  letter  in  his  hands  be- 
hind his  back  and  walked  up  and  down  the  small 
apartment,  as  if  in  deep  thought,  raising  his  eyes 
occasionally  to  glance  at  the  Spanish  vessels,  which 
lay  almost  motionless,  blowing  off  steam. 

Finally,  he  turned  to  the  Spanish  officer,  who 
stood  erect,  with  his  hand  resting  upon  the  hilt  of 


llS  THE  END   OF  NEW   YORK. 

his  sword,  and  said,  in  a  quiet,  though  determined, 
voice  : 

"  You  will  make  my  compliments  to  the  admiral 
commanding,  and  deliver,  in  reply  to  his  com- 
munication, that  which  I  will  now  dictate." 

An  aid  at  once  seated  himself  at  the  table,  and, 
at  the  general's  dictation,  wrote  as  follows  : 

SENOR     DON    ALMIRANTE    VIZCARRO,    Commanding 

Squadron  off  New  York. 

SIR  :  I  have  the  honor  to  acknowledge  your  com- 
munication of  this  date,  sent  per  flag-of-truce,  in 
which  you  demand — 

ist. — That  immediate  surrender  to  the  force  under 
your  command  be  made  of  the  fortifications 
of  this  harbor,  together  with  the  Navy  Yard 
at  Brooklyn,  and  all  munitions  of  war  here 
existing. 

2nd. — That  the  cities  of  New  York,  Brooklyn  and 
Jersey  City  do  cause  to  be  paid,  on  board  of 
your  flag-ship,  within  three  days  after  the 
said  surrender,  the  sum  of  fifty  millions  of 
dollars  in  gold,  or  in  the  paper  currency  of 
England  or  France. 

And  in  which  you  announce  that  non-ac- 
quiescence in  the  foregoing  will  be  followed 
by  the  bombardment  of  the  said  fortifica- 
tions, the  Navy  Yard  and  the  arsenals  in 
New  York  City,  by  your  squadron,  after  the 
lapse  of  twenty-four  hours  from  noon  this 
day. 


THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK.  119 

In  reply,  I  have  to  state  that  these  demands  are 
peremptorily  refused  •  and  I  have  most  solemnly 
to  protest  against  so  gross  a  violation  of  the  laws 
of  civilized  warfare,  as  is  indicated  in  your  inten- 
tion to  attack  a  city  within  a  period  too  short  to 
enable  the  non-combatants  to  be  safely  removed. 
I  have  the  honor  to  be,  etc., 

WINFIELD  S.  HANCOCK, 

Major- General  Commanding. 

This  reply  was  telegraphed  to  New  York,  and 
Mr.  Pierrepont  Edwards,  Her  Britannic  Majesty's 
Consul-General,  was  one  of  the  first  to  receive  it. 
He  acted  with  the  usual  force  and  promptness  with 
which  British  interests  and  the  lives  of  British  sub- 
jects are  protected  by  British  officials  abroad. 
That  is  to  say,  he  first  telegraphed  to  the  British 
Minister  at  Washington,  Mr.  West,  requesting,  that 
the  three  great  iron-clads,  "  Devastation/' 
"  Orion"  and  "  Agamemnon,"  all  of  which  were 
then  in  Hampton  Roads,  be  at  once  sent  to  New 
York.  Then  he  prepared  a  formal  protest  against 
the  proposed  action  of  the  Spanish  Admiral,  which 
all  the  other  foreign  consuls  at  once  signed,  and 
which  was  delivered  aboard  the  Spanish  flag-ship 
by  a  boat  bearing  the  British  flag  before  three 
o'clock  that  afternoon. 

The  Spanish  admiral  took  the  protest  into  con- 
sideration to  the  extent  of  granting  forty-eight 
hours'  time.  The  consuls  protested  again  at  this 
as  not  being  sufficient,  and  demanded  five  clear 


120  TtJR  END  OF  NEW    YORK. 

days.  The  admiral  refused  to  grant  more  than 
three  ;  but  when,  before  the  three  days  had  ex- 
pired, the  trio  of  English  war-ships  made  their  ap- 
pearance, and  calmly  moved  between  his  fleet  and 
the  shore,  he  changed  his  mind  and  granted  the 
desired  time — which  was  wise,  seeing  that  the 
English  vessels  could  blow  his  squadron  out  of 
water  with  little  trouble  and  not  much  injury  to 
themselves. 

The  railroads  which  go  out  of  New  York,  while 
perhaps  adequate  for  all  purposes  of  traffic  in  time 
of  peace,  are  scarcely  equal  to  the  removal  from 
the  city  of  several  hundred  thousand  women,  chil- 
dren, sick  and  aged  persons  within  a  period  of  even 
five  days.  People  of  this  description  cannot  be 
moved  as  easily  as  armies  ;  and  hence,  when  the 
morning  of  the  fifth  day  dawned,  fully  one-half  of 
the  non-combatant  population  was  still  in  the  city. 

This,  however,  was  attributable  not  only  to  the 
inadequacy  of  the  means  of  transportation,  but  to 
the  singular  apathy — it  was  not  fearlessness — of  the 
people  themselves.  In  the  great  tenement  dis- 
tricts, it  became  necessary  to  send  soldiers  into  the 
houses  to  drive  people  out  of  them. 

Among  the  Irish  and  Germans  there  was  actual 
rioting,  when  force  was  thus  used.  The  impression 
was  general  that  the  missiles  of  the  enemy  could 
not  reach  the  populated  parts  of  New  York. 

The  crowds,  however,  at  the  Grand  Central 
D6p6t,  trying  to  leave  the  city,  were  enormous. 
People  were  placed  in  cattle-cars,  on  wood  cars — in 


THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK.  12 1 

fact,  every  sort  of  conveyance  adapted  to  the  tracks 
was  pressed  into  service. 

The  Thirtieth  Street  Depot,  on  the  west  side, 
also  was  crowded,  and  trains  were  leaving  thence 
every  few  minutes. 

Just  before  noon,  the  city  was  horror-stricken  by 
the  news  of  a  frightful  accident  at  Spuyten  Duyvil. 
An  overloaded  train  from  the  Thirtieth  Street 
Depot  there,  through  a  broken  switch,  came  into 
collision  with  another  overloaded  train  from  the 
Grand  Central  Depot.  The  slaughter  was  hor- 
rible. Twelve  cars  were  derailed,  and  more  than 
a  hundred  and  twenty  people,  mostly  women  and 
children,  killed. 

While  people  were  repeating  this  news  to  one 
another  with  white  faces  and  trembling  lips,  the 
Spanish  squadron  was  taking  position  and  prepar- 
ing to  attack. 

The  English  squadron  moved  outside  the  Spanish 
ships,  and  stood  off  and  on  under  easy  steam. 

At  precisely  noon  the  white  flag  was  lowered 
from  the  mast-head  of  the  Spanish  flag-ship  and 
the  Spanish  flags  were  hoisted  by  all  of  the  vessels. 
Immediately  afterwards  the  "  Numancia"  delivered 
her  broadside  full  upon  the  Coney  Island  battery. 

Instantly  the  flag  from  the  general's  station  was 
flung  out,  the  signal-gun  was  discharged,  and  from 
all  the  sea-coast  batteries  the  firing  began. 


122  THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK. 


IV. 


IRON   HAIL. 

The  position  chosen  by  the  attacking  vessels 
was  about  one  and  a  half  miles  to  the  south  of 
Plumb  Inlet.  This  point  is  distant  from  Fort 
Hamilton  six  miles,  from  Sandy  Hook  light  seven 
miles,  from  Brooklyn  Navy  Yard  nine  and  a  half 
miles,  and  from  the  City  Hall,  New  York  City, 
about  eleven  miles,  in  a  straight  line.  An  ample 
depth  of  water  to  float  ships  drawing  twenty-four 
feet  here  exists.  The  situation  was  sufficiently 
distant  from  the  shore  batteries  to  render  the  effect 
of  their  projectiles  on  the  armor  of  the  vessels  quite 
inconsiderable. 

The  ships,  however,  did  not  remain  motionless, 
but  steamed  slowly  around  in  a  circle  of  some  two 
miles  in  diameter,  each  vessel  delivering  her  fire  as 
she  reached  the  point  above  specified.  In  this 
way,  the  chances  of  being  struck  by  projectiles 
from  shore  were  not  only  lessened,  but  the  injury 
which  they  could  do  was  decreased  by  the  greater 
distance  which  they  would  be  compelled  to 
traverse  to  strike  the  ships  during  the  progress  of 
the  latter  around  the  further  side  of  the  circle. 

It  was  evident  that  the  Spanish  commander  had 
no  idea  of  attempting  to  land  his  forces,  but  sim- 
ply proposed  to  keep  up  a  slow,  persistent  bom- 


THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK.  123 

bardment.  It  was  further  apparent  that  only  his 
lighter  artillery  was  directed  upon  the  shore  bat- 
teries, and  that  he  was  practising  with  his  heavy 
metal  at  high  elevations,  to  find  out  how  much 
range  he  could  get. 

When  the  second  day  of  the  bombardment 
opened,  there  were  about  a  hundred  thousand  peo- 
ple still  in  New  York,  including  two  of  the  city 
regiments  doing  police  duty.  A  strong  force  for 
this  purpose  was  necessary,  as  a  large  number  of 
roughs  and  criminals,  who  had  hurried  away  dur- 
ing the  first  panic,  now  returned,  and  signalized 
their  advent  by  the  attempted  pillage  of  the  Van- 
derbilt  residences. 

About  a  hundred  and  fifty  of  this  mob  remained 
on  the  pavement  of  Fifth  Avenue,  after  a  well- 
directed  mitrailleuse  fire  had  been  kept  up  for  some 
fifteen  minutes  by  the  troops.  The  rest  took  to 
their  heels,  and  lurked  about  the  lower  part  of  the 
city,  waiting  for  a  better  opportunity,  and  think- 
ing hungrily  of  the  contents  of  the  magnificent 
dwellings  in  the  up-town  districts. 

The  sea-coast  batteries  nearest  to  the  attacking 
ships  were  soon  rendered  untenable  by  their  fire. 
The  large  hotels  on  Coney  Island  were  all  struck 
by  shells  and  burned,  and  the  villages  of  Flat- 
lands,  Gravesend,  and  New  Utrecht  were  quickly 
destroyed. 

Shell  after  shell  then  fell  in  Flatbush,  and  occa- 
sionally a  terrific  explosion  in  Prospect  Park,  in 
Greenwood  Cemetery,  and  in  the  outlying  avenues 


124  THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK. 

of  Brooklyn,  showed  that  the  enemy  was  throwing 
his  missiles  over  distances  constantly  augmenting. 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day  a  futile  attempt 
was  made  to  blow  up  the  "  Numancia,"  first  by 
the  Lay  and  then  by  the  Ericsson  submarine  tor- 
pedo-boats. The  Lay  boat,  however,  ran  up  on 
the  east  bank  and  could  not  be  got  off,  and  the 
Ericsson  started  finely  from  the  shore,  but,  ap- 
parently, sank  before  she  had  gone  a  mile. 

The  attack  by  the  "  Alarm"  and  her  attendant 
fleet  of  torpedo-tugs  had  the  effect  of  stopping 
the  bombardment  and  of  concentrating  the 
enemy's  attention  upon  his  own  safety.  The  tugs 
advanced  gallantly  to  the  onset,  six  of  them  rush- 
ing almost  simultaneously  upon  the  "  Vittoria." 
That  vessel  met  them  with  a  broadside  which  sank 
four  at  once,  and  the  other  two  were  riddled  by 
shell  from  Hotchkiss  revolving  cannon  from  the 
decks  of  the  Spaniard  ;  their  machinery  was  crip- 
pled, and  they  drifted  helplessly  out  to  sea.  Of 
the  others,  some  ran  aground  on  the  bank,  some 
were  sunk,  and  not  one  succeeded  in  exploding  her 
torpedo  near  a  Spanish  vessel.  The  "  Alarm" 
planted  a  shell  from  her  bow-rifle,  at  close  range, 
squarely  into  the  stern  of  the  "  Zaragoza, "  pierc- 
ing the  armor  and  killing  a  dozen  men,  besides 
disabling  two  guns.  She  was  rammed,  however, 
by  the  "  Arapiles,"  and  so  badly  injured  as  to 
compel  her  to  make  her  escape  into  shoal  water  to 
prevent  sinking.  There  she  grounded,  and  the 
Spaniards  leisurely  made  a  target  of  her,  although 


THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK.  125 

they  considerately  permitted  her  crew  to  go  ashore 
in  their  boats  without  firing  a  shot  at  them. 

Meanwhile  the  remaining  citizens  of  New  York 
had  held  a  mass  meeting,  and  appointed  a  com- 
mittee of  Public  Safety,  with  General  Grant  at  its 
head.  There  had  been  a  great  popular  movement 
to  have  that  gentleman  put  in  supreme  command 
of  the  army,  but  the  authorities  at  Washington,  for 
some  occult  reason,  known  only  to  themselves,  had 
offered  him  a  major-general's  commission,  which 
he  promptly  declined.  Then  he  deliberately  went 
to  the  nearest  recruiting-station  and  tried  to  enlist 
as  a  private  ;  but  the  recruiting-officer,  after  re- 
covering his  senses,  with  which  he  parted  in 
dumb  astonishment  for  some  seconds,  refused  him 
on  the  ground  that  he  was  over  forty-five  years 
of  age. 

The  general  contented  himself  with  remarking  : 
"  Guess  they'll  want  me  yet,"  and  thereupon 
lighting  a  huge  cigar,  calmly  marched  out  of  the 
office  and  went  over  to  Flatbush,  to  "  see  where 
the  shells  are  hitting  ;"  serenely  oblivious  of  the 
possibility  of  personal  danger  involved  in  that  pro- 
ceeding. 

As  chief  of  the  Safety  Committee,  however, 
Grant  became  the  real  ruler  of  New  York.  Mar- 
tial law  existed,  and  the  senior  colonel  of  the  regi- 
ments quartered  in  the  city  was  in  nominal  charge; 
but,  as  this  individual  was  not  blessed  with 
especial  force  of  character,  he  never  asserted  his 
authority,  and,  in  fact,  seemed  rather  pleased  to 


126  THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK. 

gravitate  to  the  position  of  Grant's  immediate 
subordinate. 

On  the  evening  of  April  i8th  the  watchers  on 
Sandy  Hook  saw  a  fifth  vessel  join  the  Spanish 
fleet  ;  a  long,  low  craft,  having,  apparently,  two 
turrets  and  very  light  spars.  They  also  saw  the 
admiral's  flag  on  the  "  Numancia"  lowered,  only  to 
be  hoisted  again  on  the  foremast  of  the  new-comer. 

At  daybreak  on  the  following  morning  a  shell 
crashed  through  the  roof  of  the  Fifth  Avenue 
Hotel,  descended  to  the  cellar,  burst  there  and 
wrecked  a  quarter  of  the  building.  What  new  fury 
had  thus  been  let  loose  ? 

It  has  already  been  stated  that  the  great  ironclad 
"  El  Cid  "  had  sailed  from  Vigo — she  had  arrived. 

She  carried  four  guns.  Two  one-hundred-ton 
Armstrongs,  each  having  an  effectual  range  of  12 
miles,  and  two  Krupp  i5.7-inch  guns,  which  throw 
shot  weighing  nearly  2000  pounds  over  ten  miles. 
Krupp  claims  a  range  of  15  miles  ;  but  this  is 
doubtful.  She  also  was  encased  in  21  yz  inches  of 
compound  steel  and  iron  armor,  capable  of  resist- 
ing the  projectiles  of  any  cannon  known — except, 
perhaps,  those  of  her  own  Armstrongs. 

The  most  powerfully  armed  and  most  impreg- 
nable ironclad  in  the  world  now  lay  before  New 
York. 

It  was  an  Armstrong  shell  which  struck  the  Fifth 
Avenue  Hotel.  It  was  a  Krupp  shell  which  shortly 
after  knocked  down  the  steeple  of  Trinity  Church 
as  if  it  were  a  turret  of  cards. 


THE   END    OF  NEW    YORK.  127 

In  view  of  this  new  attack  General  Grant  was  re- 
quested to  call  a  meeting  of  the  Committee  of 
Safety,  to  consider  the  question  of  capitulation,  as 
it  was  evident  that  the  continuation  of  such  a  bom- 
bardment would  speedily  destroy  property  in  value 
far  beyond  the  immense  sum  asked  by  the  be- 
siegers. 

He  notified  the  members  to  meet  in  the  City 
Hall.  When  he  arrived,  he  found  nobody  but  a 
messenger-boy,  who  tremblingly  emerged  from  the 
cellar. 

The  General  quietly  removed  his  cigar  and  ask- 
ed : 

"  Where's  the  Committee  ?" 

"  They — they — is — up  ter  In  wood,  sir." 

The  boy's  teeth  chattered  so  that  he  could 
hardly  speak. 

"  What  the  deuce  are  they  doing  there  ?" 

"  Dunno,  sir.  They  told  me  as  to  tell  you,  sir, 
that  they  wuz  a  Committee  of  Safety,  and  that's 
wot  they  wanted,  sir." 

"Wanted  what?" 

"  S-s-afety,  sir  !" 

"  And  they  deputized  you  to  tell  me  that,  eh  ?" 

"Ye-yes,  sir." 

"  And  you  looked  for  me  down  in  the  cellar  ?" 

"  N-no,  sir.  I  wanted  safety,  too,  sir.  Oh, 
Lordy  !" 

This  last  interjection  was  elicited  by  seeing  the 
upper  part  of  the  Tribune  tall  tower  suddenly  fly 
off,  and  land  on  the  roof  of  the  Sun  building. 


128  THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK. 

A  sort  of  a  sphinx-like  smile  overspread  the  gen- 
eral's features. 

He  looked  around  for  the  messenger-boy,  but 
that  youth  was  making  extraordinary  speed  up 
Broadway. 

The  general  leisurely  proceeded  up  that  thor- 
oughfare— occasionally  stopping,  as  a  shot  went 
crashing  into  some  near  building,  to  note  the  effect. 

On  arriving  at  Union  Square,  he  met  a  cavalry 
squad  looking  for  him,  and  mounting  the  horse  of 
one  of  the  men,  he  proceeded  with  this  escort  to 
the  upper  end  of  the  island,  which  was  now  dense- 
ly packed  with  people. 

The  projectiles  from  the  heavy  guns  of  the  great 
iron-clad  were  now  falling  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
city  with  terrible  effect.  The  Western  Union 
building  was  shattered  from  cellar  to  roof  ;  the 
City  Hall  was  on  fire;  so  also  was  St.  Paul's  Church 
and  the  Herald  building.  The  last-mentioned  con- 
flagration was  put  out  by  the  editors  and  composi- 
tors of  that  journal — the  entire  Herald  staff  being 
then  in  the  underground  press-rooms,  busily  pre- 
paring and  working  off  extras  giving  the  latest  de- 
tails of  the  bombardment. 

The  Morse  Building  was  completely  demolished 
by  two  Krupp  shells,  and  not  an  edifice  in  Wall 
Street,  except  the  sub-Treasury,  had  escaped  total 
ruin. 

The  result  of  the  conference  of  the  Safety  Com- 
mittee was  the  dispatching  of  a  messenger  to  Sandy 
Hook,  informing  General  Hancock  of  the  condi- 


THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK.  129 

tion  of  affairs,  and  asking  him  to  request  an  armis- 
tice for  parley. 

The  "  Ideal,"  bearing  a  white  flag,  was  at  once 
dispatched  to  the  Spanish  flag-ship,  and  shortly 
after  the  firing  ceased. 

The  Spanish  admiral  refused  to  alter  the  terms 
already  proposed,  except  that,  in  view  of  the  injury 
already  inflicted  on  the  city  and  the  probable  in- 
creased difficulty  of  collecting  the  sum  demanded, 
he  would  agree  to  allow  five  days'  time  in  which 
to  pay  the  latter,  on  board  his  flag-ship. 

General  Hancock  declined  to  consider  this  pro- 
posal. 

"  El  Cid  "  now  began  a  new  manoeuvre.  All  the 
steam-launches  of  the  fleet,  provided  with  long, 
forked  spars  extending  from  their  bows,  formed  in 
front  of  her,  and,  thus  preceded,  she  deliberately 
steamed  up  to  the  Main  channel. 

The  fort  on  the  Hook  at  once  opened  upon  her, 
but  the  shot  glanced  like  dry  peas  from  her  armor. 
She,  in  return,  shelled  the  fort,  the  masonry  of 
which  literally  crumbled  before  the  enormous  pro- 
jectiles hurled  against  it.  Meanwhile,  the  launches 
had  entered  the  channel  and  were  picking  up  such 
torpedoes  as  could  be  detected.  Other  launches, 
having  no  crews  on  board,  but  being  governed  en- 
tirely by  electric  wires,  were  sent  into  the  channel 
and  caused  to  drop  counter  mines,  which,  on  being 
fired,  caused  the  explosion  of  such  torpedoes  as  re- 
mained :  thus  making  a  broad  and  safe  channel  for 
the  ironclad  to  enter. 


130  THE   END    OF  NEW    YORK. 

Finally  the  remaining  launches  returned  to  the 
"  Cid"  and  evidently  reported  the  channel  clear, 
for  she  boldly  steamed  into  it,  stopping  only  for  an 
instant,  when  off  the  end  of  the  peninsula,  to  send 
a  double  charge  of  grape  and  canister  from  her 
huge  guns  into  the  ranks  of  the  fugitives,  who 
were  precipitately  rushing  from  the  fort. 

It  was  then  that  General  Hancock  was  killed, 
although  the  fact  has  since  often  been  disputed. 
His  body,  wounded  in  a  dozen  places,  was  found 
on  the  sand  near  the  highest  wall  of  the  fort,  from 
the  top  of  which,  it  is  conjectured,  he  was  swept 
by  the  fearful  hail  of  the  Spanish  ironclad. 

"  El  Cid"  continued  on  into  the  bay,  occasion- 
ally stopping  as  signaled  by  the  launches  preced- 
ing her,  when  a  torpedo  was  encountered,  and 
finally  took  up  her  position  within  about  a  mile  of 
Fort  Hamilton,  and  hence  about  seven  miles  from 
the  Battery. 

As  the  projectiles  from  the  fort  glanced  harm- 
lessly from  her  armor,  she  paid  no  attention  to 
that  attack,  but  resumed  her  fire  upon  the  city. 

Shells  now  began  to  fall  as  far  up-town  as  Forty- 
second  Street. 


THE   END   OF  NEW    YORK.  131 

V. 

AT    THE   MERCY    OF    THE    FOE. 

Meanwhile,  the  other  four  vessels  had  ceased 
their  bombardment  of  the  batteries,  as  the  latter  no 
longer  answered  them. 

They  appeared  to  have  new  work  in  hand. 

During  the  following  afternoon  a  fresh  sea-breeze 
set  in.  Then  a  large,  swaying  globe  made  its  ap- 
pearance on  the  deck  of  each  of  the  vessels.  Ex- 
amination with  the  telescope  showed  to  the  signal 
men,  who  had  established  a  new  station  on  the 
Jersey  highlands,  that  these  mysterious  spheres 
were  balloons  ;  and  that  the  ships  were  about  to 
dispatch  them,  was  evident  from  the  fact  that 
small  pilot-balloons  were  soon  sent  up.  These  last 
were  wafted  directly  toward  the  city. 

What  possible  object  could  the  Spanish  war- ves- 
sels have  in  this,  was  a  question  asked  by  every 
one,  as  soon  as  the  intelligence  became  known. 

The  balloon  which  rose  from  the  "  Numancia" 
had  a  car  attached,  but  there  was  clearly  no  one  in 
it.  Therefore  the  balloons  were  not  to  be  used  for 
purposes  of  observation. 

The  people  in  New  York  saw  the  balloons  as  they 
successively  rose  from  the  four  vessels^  and  won- 
deringly  watched  their  progress. 

They  saw  the  first  of  them  gently  sail  toward  the 


132  THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK. 

city  until  about  over  the  Roman  Catholic  Cathe- 
dral on  Fifth  Avenue.  Then  a  dark  object  seemed 
to  fall  from  the  car,  the  lightened  balloon  shot  up- 
ward, the  object  struck  the  roof  of  the  cathedral, 
there  was  a  fearful  explosion,  a  trembling  of  the 
earth  as  if  an  angry  volcano  were  beneath,  and  the 
crash  of  falling  buildings  followed. 

Through  the  great  clouds  of  dust  and  smoke  it 
could  be  seen  that  not  only  was  the  cathedral 
shattered,  but  that  the  walls  of  every  building 
adjacent  to  the  square  on  which  it  stood  were 
down. 

The  Spaniards  were  dropping  nitro-glycerine  bombs 
into  the  city  from  the  balloons.  They  knew  how  long 
it  would  take  the  breeze  to  waft  the  air-ships  over 
the  built-up  portion,  and  it  was  an  easy  matter  to 
adjust  clock-work  in  the  car  to  cause  the  dropping 
of  the  torpedo  at  about  the  proper  time. 

Accuracy  was  not  needed.  A  shell,  filled  with 
fifty  or  a  hundred  pounds  of  dynamite  or  nitro- 
glycerine, would  be  sure  to  do  terrible  damage 
anywhere  within  a  radius  of  three  miles  around 
Madison  Square. 

A  second  balloon  dropped  its  charge  into  the 
receiving  reservoir  in  Central  Park,  luckily  doing 
no  damage,  but  throwing  up  a  tremendous  jet  of 
water.  The  third  and  fourth  balloons  let  fall  their 
dejectiles,  the  one  among  the  tenements  near 
Tompkins  Square  destroying  an  entire  block  of 
houses  simultaneously  ;  the  other  on  High  Bridge, 
completely  shattering  that  structure,  and  so  break- 


THE  END   OF  NEW   YORK.  133 

ing  the  aqueduct  through  which  the  city  obtains  its 
water  supply. 

The  Spanish  admiral  now  ceased  firing  volun- 
tarily, and  sent  a  message  by  flag-of-truce  announc- 
ing his  intention  to  continue  the  throwing  of  bal- 
loon torpedoes  into  the  city  until  it  capitulated, 
and,  in  order  to  avoid  further  destruction  of  prop- 
erty, he  renewed  the  proposal  already  made. 

General  Grant,  on  receiving  this  message — for 
the  citizens  had  literally  forced  him  to  take  active 
command  of  the  troops — simply  remarked  : 

"  Let  him  fire  away  !" 

But  the  Safety  Committee  vehemently  protested  ; 
and  finally,  after  much  discussion,  induced  Grant 
to  send  back  word  that  the  terms  were  accepted. 

The  situation  was,  in  truth,  one  of  sadness — of 
bitter  humiliation.  The  Empire  City  had  fallen, 
and  lay  at  the  mercy  of  a  foreign  foe.  The  im- 
mense ransom  demanded  must  be  raised  and  paid, 
or  the  work  of  destruction  would  be  resumed  until 
the  defenders  of  the  bay  removed  their  torpedoes 
from  the  Narrows  and  permitted  the  Spanish  forces 
to  enter  and  occupy  the  metropolis. 


134  THE  END   OF  NEW   YORK. 


VI. 


THE  FLAG  WITH  THE  LONE  STAR. 

As  it  was  manifestly  impossible  to  obtain  fifty 
millions  of  dollars  in  specie  and  foreign  notes 
within  New  York — for  all  the  money  in  the  vaults 
of  the  banks  and  the  treasury  had  long  since  been 
sent  to  other  cities — the  general  government  as- 
sumed payment  of  the  amount  demanded  by  the 
Spaniards,  which,  however,  it  was  decided  not  to 
make  until  just  before  the  expiration  of  the  last  of 
the  five  days  of  grace. 

As  will  now  be  seen,  this  was  a  fortunate  deci- 
sion. The  unremitting  bombardment  which  had 
been  maintained  by  the  four  vessels  off  the  Long 
Island  shore  had  so  greatly  reduced  their  supply 
of  ammunition  that  it  became  necessary  to  send 
for  more  :  and  for  this  purpose  the  "  Vittoria"  was 
dispatched  to  meet  a  transport  which  had  been 
ordered  to  sail  from  Cuba  at  about  this  time. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  the  weather  as- 
sumed a  threatening  appearance,  and  the  "  El  Cid" 
left  her  position  near  Fort  Hamilton  for  a  more  se- 
cure anchorage  near  Sandy  Hook.  The  other 
ships  stood  out  to  sea. 

It  stormed  heavily  during  that  night,  and  before 
evening  on  the  morrow  one  of  the  strongest  gales 
ever  known  in  this  vicinity  had  set  in. 


THE  END    OF  NEW    YORK.  135 

The  situation  in  which  the  Spanish  flag-ship  now 
found  herself  was  critical.  She  had  put  down  her 
two  bower  anchors,  but  they  were  clearly  insuffi- 
cient to  hold  her.  To  veer  out  cable  was  danger- 
ous, for  it  was  not  known  how  near  the  ship  was 
to  sunken  torpedoes  ;  to  allow  her  to  drag  was  to 
run  the  double  chance  of  striking  a  torpedo  or 
going  ashore. 

During  the  night  she  parted  both  cables,  and  the 
morning  found  her  firmly  imbedded  in  the  beach 
off  the  Hook.  Of  the  other  vessels,  the  "  Numan- 
cia"  only  was  in  sight. 

The  signal  men,  however,  could  see  black  smoke 
on  the  horizon  ;  and  this  they  anxiously  watched, 
expecting  momentarily  to  make  out  the  "  Arapiles" 
and  "  Zaragoza."  Shortly  after  daybreak,  a  thick 
fog  settled  down,  completely  cutting  off  the  sea- 
ward view. 

In  the  signal  station  were  General  Grant  and 
several  members  of  the  Safety  Commission.  The 
ransom  money  was  in  readiness,  and  the  intention 
was  to  pay  it  over  during  the  morning. 

At  about  eight  o'clock,  heavy  firing  was  heard 
from  the  sea. 

It  was  too  far  distant  to  be  accounted  for  by  a 
supposed  renewal  of  the  bombardment  by  the  Span- 
ish ships,  even  under  the  assumption  that  they  had 
thus  broken  the  truce. 

The  watchers  at  the  signal  station  looked  at  each 
other  in  astonishment,  and  eagerly  waited  for  the 
fog  to  lift. 


136  THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK. 

An  hour  later,  the  mist  began  to  clear  away. 
The  sight  that  met  the  eyes  of  the  spectators  was 
one  never  to  be  forgotten. 

The  "  Numancia"  was  evidently  ashore  on  the 
East  bank.  Her  fore  and  mainmasts  were  gone, 
and  clouds  of  dark  smoke  were  lazily  ascending 
from  her  forecastle.  Suddenly,  the  whole  ship 
seemed  to  burst  into  a  sheet  of  flame,  there  was  a 
deep  explosion,  the  air  was  filled  with  flying  frag- 
ments, and  a  blackened  hull  was  all  that  was  left 
of  the  proud  man-of-war. 

The  "  Arapiles,"  about  two  miles  further  out  to 
sea,  was  making  a  gallant  defense  against  three 
strange  vessels.  Two,  lying  at  short  range  on  her 
quarters,  were  pouring  in  a  fearful  fire  ;  the  third, 
which  had  evidently  been  engaged  with  the 
"  Numancia,"  was  rapidly  bearing  down  upon  her, 
apparently  intending  to  ram. 

Who  could  the  strangers  be  ? 

The  flags  which  floated  from  their  mast-heads 
bore  a  strong  resemblance  to  our  own,  yet  they 
were  not  the  stars  and  stripes  ;  for  the  stripes  were 
replaced  by  but  two  broad  bands  of  red  and  white, 
and  in  the  blue  field  there  was  but  a  single  star. 

"  Chili,  by  Jove  J"  ejaculated  some  one  in  the 
signal  station. 

He  was  right. 

The  new-comers  were  the  "  Huascar,"  the  "Almi- 
rante  Cochrane"  and  the  "  Blanco  Encelada,"  the 
three  armored  vessels  of  the  South  American  Re- 
public. 


THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK.  137 

It  was  the  "  Huascar"  which  was  now  bearing 
down  upon  the  "  Arapiles." 

Suddenly,  the  Chilian  monitor  was  seen  to  slack- 
en her  speed  and  change  her  course. 

She  no  longer  meant  to  ram  ;  the  necessity  had 
ceased.  At  the  same  time,  the  other  Chilian  ves- 
sels ceased  firing. 

The  Spanish  ensign  on  the  "  Arapiles"  had  been 
lowered.  In  a  few  minutes  after  it  rose  again,  but 
this  time  surmounted  by  the  Chilian  flag. 

Then  the  four  vessels  stood  in  toward  the  Hook. 

The  watchers  on  the  signal  station  now  waited 
in  breathless  suspense. 

The  "Arapiles,"  with  a  prize  crew  from  the 
other  vessels  to  work  her  guns,  was  to  be  made  to 
attack  her  former  consort,  the  stranded  "  El  Cid  ;" 
and  that  vessel,  aware  of  her  danger,  was  now 
firing  rapidly  at  her  approaching  enemies. 

It  was  not  reserved,  however,  for  the  Chilians  to 
complete  their  victory  by  the  capture  of  the  great 
ironclad. 

The  giant  was  to  be  killed  by  a  pigmy  scarce 
larger  than  one  of  his  own  huge  weapons.  A 
smaller  steam-launch  slowly  crept  out  from  the 
Staten  Island  shore.  But  two  men  could  be  seen 
on  board  of  her — one  in  the  bow,  the  other  at  the 
helm. 

"  They  don't  see  us  yet,  Ned,"  said  the  man  in 
the  bow. 

"  No  ;  they  have  all  they  can  do  to  take  care  of 
the  other  fellows.  Look  out  !  Are  you  hurt  ?" 


138  THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK. 

A  shell  from  the  Chilians  just  then  came  over 
the  Hook,  and,  bursting  under  the  water  near  the 
launch,  deluged  the  boat  with  spray. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  the  other. 

"  Is  your  boom  clear  ?" 

"All  clear." 

Bang  !  A  shot,  this  time  from  the  Spaniard, 
came  skipping  along  the  water  in  the  direction  of 
the  launch,  and  flew  over  the  heads  of  the  daring 
pair. 

"  Hang  them  !     They've  seen  us." 

"  Rig  out  your  boom.     We're  in  for  it  now  !" 

The  man  in  the  stern  pushed  shut  the  door  of 
the  boiler  furnace,  and  turned  on  full  steam. 

The  little  craft  fairly  leaped  ahead. 

The  two  men  set  their  teeth.  He  of  the  stern 
lashed  the  tiller  amidships,  and  crept  forward, 
aiding  the  other  to  push  out  the  long  boom  which 
projected  from  the  bow. 

Ten  seconds  passed.  Then  the  torpedo  on  the 
end  of  the  boom  struck  the  "  El  Cid"  under  the 
stern.  There  was  a  crash — a  vast  upheaval  of 
water  and  fragments. 

The  great  ironclad  rolled  over  on  her  side  and 
lay  half  submerged. 

Of  the  two  men  who  had  done  this,  one  swam 
ashore  bearing  the  other,  wounded  to  the  death. 

A  mighty  cheer  arose  from  the  Chilian  fleet,  re- 
peated from  the  shore  with  redoubled  volume. 

"  El  Cid"  lay  sullen  and  silent  ;  two  of  her  guns 
were  pointing  under  water,  two  up  to  the  clouds. 


THE  END    OF  NEW    YORK.  139 

The  "  Arapiles"  fired  the  last  shell  at  her  own 
admiral — now  a  corpse,  torn  to  pieces  by  the  tor- 
pedo. 

Then  some  one  scrambled  along  the  deck  of  the 
wrecked  monster  and  lowered  the  Spanish  flag. 

"I   think   we'll   keep   that    money,"    remarked 

Grant,  as  he  lit  another  cigar. 

****** 

The  Chilian  fleet  had  relieved  New  York.  Elated 
by  her  victory  over  Peru,  and  thirsting  for  revenge 
against  Spain  for  the  latter's  merciless  bombard- 
ment of  Valparaiso  in  1866,  the  Chilians,  as  soon 
as  they  had  learned  of  the  declaration  of  war  against 
the  United  States,  tore  up  the  treaty  of  truce  and 
armistice  made  with  Spain  in  1871,  and  announced 
themselves  an  ally  of  this  country.  Realizing  the 
weakness  of  our  navy,  and  the  unprotected  position 
of  our  seaports,  Chili  instantly  dispatched  her 
three  ironclads  to  New  York.  They  made  the 
voyage  with  remarkable  celerity,  stopping  only  for 
coal  and  provisions,  and  reached  the  beleaguered 
city  just  in  the  nick  of  time,  as  has  already  been 
detailed. 

It  was  fortunate  that  the  "  Zaragoza"  had  been 
obliged  to  put  so  far  out  to  sea  that  she  could  not 
return  in  season  to  take  part  in  the  conflict,  other- 
wise the  result  might  have  been  different. 

As  it  was,  when  she  came  back  a  day  later,  and 
discovered  the  position  of  affairs,  she  took  to  her 
heels  without  delay. 

It  is  not  necessary  here  to  speak  of  the  greeting 


140  THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK. 

which  the  Chilians  received,  or  the  thanks  which 
were  lavished  upon  them  by  the  people  of  the 
United  States.  Neither  need  we  picture  the  dis- 
may of  the  citizens  of  New  York  when  they  came 
to  realize  the  fearful  damage  which  had  been  in- 
flicted upon  their  city.  Fully  one-half  of  the  town 
lay  in  ruins.  The  metropolis  was  the  metropolis  no 
longer.  The  proudest  city  of  the  Great  Republic 
had  been  at  the  mercy  of  a  conqueror,  and,  as  if 
this  humiliation  were  not  deep  enough,  she  owed 
her  preservation  from  utter  destruction  to  the  guns 
of  an  insignificant  Republic  of  South  America. 


Six  months  after  the  relief  of  the  city,  a  Chilian 
sailor  belonging  to  the  "  Huascar,"  which  was  ly- 
ing off  the  Battery,  stopped  to  watch  a  crowd  of 
workmen  who  were  busily  engaged  in  clearing 
away  the  ruins  of  some  tenement  buildings  near 
Tompkins  Square. 

The  face  of  one  of  the  workmen  had  evidently 
attracted  the  foreigner's  attention,  as  he  gazed  at 
him  intently  and  curiously. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  sharp  detonation.  The 
crowd  scattered  in  all  directions.  An  unexploded 
shell  which  had  lodged  in  the  building  had  been 
struck  by  a  pick  in  the  hands  of  one  of  the  labor- 
ers, and  had  been  fired. 

The  sailor  helped  carry  out  the  dead. 

Among  the  victims  was  the  man  at  whom  he  had 
been  so  intently  looking  a  moment  before.  This 


THE  END   OF  NEW    YORK.  141 

one  he  took  in  his  arms  and  bore  him  apart  from 
the  rest. 

Nervously  he  tore  open  the  dead  man's  shirt. 
On  the  bared  breast  was  a  curiously  shaped  mole. 

The  sailor  sank  on  his  knees  in  prayer  beside  the 
body  for  a  moment.  Then  he  turned,  and  ad- 
dressing an  officer  who,  with  a  file  of  soldiers,  had 
come  upon  the  scene,  and  was  directing  the  re- 
moval of  the  dead,  he  asked  in  broken  English, 
pointing  to  the  corpse  : 

"  Will  you  give  me  this  ?" 

"  Why  ?" 

"  He  was  my  brother — Leon  Sangrado." 

The  war  had  found  a  victim  in  him  who  had 
caused  it. 


WHY  THOMAS  WAS  DISCHARGED. 

BY  GEORGE  ARNOLD. 


BRANT  BEACH  is  a  long  promontory  of  rock 
and  sand,  jutting  out  at  an  acute  angle  from 
a  barren  portion  of  the  coast.  Its  farthest  ex- 
tremity is  marked  by  a  pile  of  many-colored,  wave- 
washed  boulders  ;  its  junction  with  the  mainland 
is  the  site  of  the  Brant  House,  a  watering-place  of 
excellent  repute. 

The  attractions  of  this  spot  are  not  numerous. 
There  is  surf-bathing  all  along  the  outer  side  of  the 
beach,  and  good  swimming  on  the  inner.  The 
fishing  is  fair  ;  and  in  still  weather  yachting  is 
rather  a  favorite  amusement.  Further  than  this 
there  is  little  to  be  said,  save  that  the  hotel  is  con- 
ducted upon  liberal  principles,  and  the  society  gen- 
erally select. 

But  to  the  lover  of  nature — and  who  has  the 
courage  to  avow  himself  aught  else  ? — the  sea-shore 

***  Atlantic  Monthly,  June^  1863. 


WHY   THOMAS  WAS  DISCHARGED.          143 

can  never  be  monotonous.  The  swirl  and  sweep 
of  ever-shifting  waters,  the  flying  mist  of  foam 
breaking  away  into  a  gray  and  ghostly  distance 
down  the  beach,  the  eternal  drone  of  ocean,  min- 
gling itself  with  one's  talk  by  day  and  with  the 
light  dance-music  in  the  parlors  by  night — all  these 
are  active  sources  of  a  passive  pleasure.  And  to  lie 
at  length  upon  the  tawny  sand,  watching,  through 
half-closed  eyes,  the  heaving  waves,  that  mount 
against  a  dark  blue  sky  wherein  great  silvery 
masses  of  cloud  float  idly  on,  whiter  than  the  sunlit 
sails  that  fade  and  grow  and  fade  along  the  horizon, 
while  some  fair  damsel  sits  close  by,  reading  an- 
cient ballads  of  a  simple  metre,  or  older  legends  of 
love  and  romance — tell  me,  my  eater  of  the  fash- 
ionable lotos,  is  not  this  a  diversion  well  worth 
your  having  ? 

There  is  an  air  of  easy  sociality  among  the  guests 
at  the  Brant  House,  a  disposition  on  the  part  of 
all  to  contribute  to  the  general  amusement,  that 
makes  a  summer  sojourn  on  the  beach  far  more 
agreeable  than  in  certain  larger,  more  frequented 
watering-places,  where  one  is  always  in  danger  of 
discovering  that  the  gentlemanly  person  with 
whom  he  has  been  fraternizing  is  a  faro-dealer,  or 
that  the  lady  who  has  half-fascinated  him  is 
Anonyma  herself.  Still,  some  consider  the  Brant 
rather  slow,  and  many  good  folk  were  a  trifle  sur- 
prised when  Mr.  Edwin  Salsbury  and  Mr.  Charles 
Burnham  arrived  by  the  late  stage  from  Wikhasset 
Station,  with  trunks  enough  for  two  first-class 


144          WHY   THOMAS  WAS  DISCHARGED. 

belles,  and  a  most  unexceptionable  man-servant  in 
gray  livery,  in  charge  of  two  beautiful  setter-dogs. 

These  gentlemen  seemed  to  have  imagined  that 
they  were  about  visiting  some  backwoods  wilder- 
ness, some  savage  tract  of  country,  "  remote,  un- 
friended, melancholy,  slow,"  for  they  brought 
almost  everything  with  them  that  men  of  elegant 
leisure  could  require,  as  if  the  hotel  were  but  four 
walls  and  a  roof,  which  they  must  furnish  with 
their  own  chattels.  I  am  sure  it  took  Thomas,  the 
man-servant,  a  whole  day  to  unpack  the  awnings, 
the  bootjacks,  the  game-bags,  the  cigar-boxes,  the 
guns,  the  camp-stools,  the  liquor-cases,  the  bath- 
ing-suits, and  other  paraphernalia  that  these  pleas- 
ure-seekers brought.  It  must  be  owned,  however, 
that  their  room,  a  large  one  in  the  Bachelors' 
Quarter,  facing  the  sea,  wore  a  very  comfortable, 
sportsmanlike  look  when  all  was  arranged. 

Thus  surrounded,  the  young  men  betook  them- 
selves to  the  deliberate  pursuit  of  idle  pleasures. 
They  arose  at  nine  and  went  down  the  shore,  in- 
variably returning  at  ten  with  one  unfortunate 
snipe,  which  was  preserved  on  ice,  with  much  cere- 
mony, till  wanted.  At  this  rate  it  took  them  a 
week  to  shoot  a  breakfast  ;  but  to  see  them  sally 
forth,  splendid  in  velveteen  and  corduroy,  with 
top-boots  and  a  complete  harness  of  green  cord  and 
patent-leather  straps,  you  would  have  imagined 
that  all  game-birds  were  about  to  become  ex- 
tinct in  that  region.  Their  dogs,  even,  recognized 
this  great-cry-little-wool  condition  of  things,  and 


WHY   THOMAS   WAS  DISCHARGED.          145 

bounded  off  joyously  at  the  start,  but  came  home 
crestfallen,  with  an  air  of  canine  humiliation  that 
would  have  aroused  Mr.  Mayhew's  tenderest  sym- 
pathies. 

After  breakfasting,  usually  in  their  room,  the 
friends  enjoyed  a  long  and  contemplative  smoke 
upon  the  wide  piazza  in  front  of  their  windows, 
listlessly  regarding  the  ever-varied  marine  view 
that  lay  before  them  in  flashing  breadth  and 
beauty.  Their  next  labor  was  to  array  themselves 
in  wonderful  morning-costumes  of  very  shaggy 
English  cloth,  shiny  flasks  and  field-glasses  about 
their  shoulders,  and  loiter  down  the  beach,  to  the 
point  and  back,  making  much  unnecessary  effort 
over  the  walk — a  brief  mile — which  they  spoke  of, 
with  importance,  as  their  "  constitutional."  This 
killed  time  till  bathing-hour,  and  then  another 
toilet  for  dinner.  After  dinner  a  siesta  :  in  the 
room,  when  the  weather  was  fresh  ;  when  other- 
wise, in  hammocks  hung  from  the  rafters  of  the 
piazza..  When  they  had  been  domiciled  a  few 
days,  they  found  it  expedient  to  send  home  for 
what  they  were  pleased  to  term  their  "  crabs"  and 
"traps,"  and  excited  the  envy  of  less  fortunate 
guests  by  driving  up  and  down  the  beach  at  a  rac- 
ing gait  to  dissipate  the  languor  of  the  after-dinner 
sleep. 

This  was  their  regular  routine  for  the  day — 
varied,  occasionally,  when  the  tide  served,  by  a 
fishing  trip  down  the  narrow  bay  inside  the  point. 
For  such  emergencies  they  provided  themselves 


146  WHY    THOMAS   WAS  DISCHARGED. 

with  a  sail-boat  and  skipper,  hired  for  the  whole 
season,  and  arrayed  themselves  in  a  highly  nautical 
rig.  The  results  were,  large  quantities  of  sardines 
and  pale  sherry  consumed  by  the  young  men,  and 
a  reasonable  number  of  sea-bass  and  blackfish 
caught  by  the  skipper. 

There  were  no  regular  "  hops"  at  the  Brant 
House,  but  dancing  in  a  quiet  way  every  evening, 
to  a  flute,  violin,  and  violoncello,  played  by  some 
of  the  waiters.  For  a  time  Burnham  and  Salsbury 
did  not  mingle  much  in  these  festivities,  but  loi- 
tered about  the  halls  and  piazzas,  very  elegantly 
dressed  and  barbered  (Thomas  was  an  unrivalled 
coiffeur),  and  apparently  somewhat  ennuye. 

That  two  well-made,  full-grown,  intelligent,  and 
healthy  young  men  should  lead  such  a  life  as  this 
for  an  entire  summer  might  surprise  one  of  a  more 
active  temperament.  The  aimlessness  and  vacancy  | 
of  an  existence  devoted  to  no  earthly  purpose  save  I 
one's  own  comfort  must  soon  weary  any  man  who 
knows  what  is  the  meaning  of  real,  earnest  life — ' 
life  with  a  battle  to  be  fought  and  a  victory  to  be 
won.  But  these  elegant  young  gentlemen  compre- 
hended nothing  of  all  that  :  they  had  been  born 
with  golden  spoons  in  their  mouths,  and  educated 
only  to  swallow  the  delicately  insipid  lotos-honey 
that  flows  inexhaustibly  from  such  shining  spoons. 
Clothes,  complexions,  polish  of  manner,  and  the 
avoidance  of  any  sort  of  shock  were  the  simple  ob- 
jects of  their  solicitude. 

I  do  not  know  that  1  have  any  serious  quarrel 


WHY    THOMAS    WAS  DISCHARGED.          147 

with  such  fellows,  after  all.  They  have  strong  vir- 
tues. They  are  always  clean  ;  and  your  rough 
diamond,  though  manly  and  courageous  as  Cceur 
de  Lion,  is  not  apt  to  be  scrupulously  nice  in  his 
habits.  Affability  is  another  virtue.  The  Salsbury 
and  Burnham  kind  of  man  bears  malice  toward  no 
one,  and  is  disagreeable  only  when  assailed  by 
some  hammer-and-tongs  utilitarian.  All  he  asks  is 
to  be  permitted  to  idle  away  his  pleasant  life  un- 
molested. Lastly,  he  is  extremely  ornamental. 
We  all  like  to  see  pretty  things  ;  and  I  am  sure 
that  Charley  Burnham,  in  his  fresh  white  duck 
suit,  with  his  fine,  thoroughbred  face — gentle  as  a 
girl's — shaded  by  a  snowy  Panama,  his  blonde 
moustache  carefully  pointed,  his  golden  hair  clus- 
tering in  the  most  picturesque  possible  waves,  his 
little  red  neck-ribbon — the  only  bit  of  color  in  his 
dress — tied  in  a  studiously  careless  knot,  and  his 
pure,  untainted  gloves  of  pearl  gray  or  lavender, 
was,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the  expression,  just  as 
pretty  as  a  picture.  And  Ned  Salsbury  was  not 
less  "  a  joy  forever,"  according  to  the  dictum  of 
the  late  Mr.  Keats.  He  was  darker  than  Burnham, 
with  very  black  hair,  and  a  moustache  worn  in  the 
manner  the  French  call  triste,  which  became  him, 
and  increased  the  air  of  pensive  melancholy  that 
distinguished  his  dark  eyes,  thoughtful  attitudes, 
and  slender  figure.  Not  that  he  was  in  the  least 
degree  pensive  or  melancholy,  or  that  he  had  cause 
to  be  ;  quite  the  contrary  ;  but  it  was  his  style, 
and  he  did  it  well. 


148          WHY   THOMAS    WAS  DISCHARGED. 

These  two  butterflies  sat,  one  afternoon,  upon 
the  piazza,  smoking  very  large  cigars,  lost,  appar- 
ently, in  profoundest  meditation.  Burnham,  with 
his  graceful  head  resting  upon  one  delicate  hand, 
his  clear  blue  eyes  full  of  a  pleasant  light,  and  his 
face  warmed  by  a  calm,  unconscious  smile,  might 
have  been  revolving  some  splendid  scheme  of  uni- 
versal philanthropy.  The  only  utterance,  how- 
ever, forced  from  him  by  the  sublime  thoughts  that 
permeated  his  soul,  was  the  emission  of  a  white 
rolling  volume  of  fragrant  smoke,  accompanied  by 
two  words  :  "  Dooced  hot  !" 

Salsbury  did  not  reply.  He  sat,  leaning  back, 
with  his  fingers  interlaced  behind  his  head,  and 
his  shadowy  eyes  downcast,  as  in  sad  remembrance 
of  some  long-lost  love.  So  might  a  poet  have 
looked,  while  steeped  in  mournfully  rapturous  day- 
dreams of  remembered  passion  and  severance.  So 
might  Tennyson's  hero  have  mused,  while  he  sang  : 

"  Oh,  that  'twere  possible, 

After  long  grief  and  pain, 
To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 
Round  me  once  again  !" 

But  the  poetic  lips  opened  not  to  such  numbers. 
Salsbury  gazed  long  and  earnestly,  and  finally 
gave  vent  to  his  emotion,  indicating,  with  the 
amber  tip  of  his  cigar-tube,  the  setter  that  slept  in 
the  sunshine  at  his  feet. 

"  Shocking  place,  this,  for  dogs  !" — I  regret  to 
say  he  pronounced  it  "  dawgs" — "  Why,  Carlo  is 
as  fat — as  fat  as — as  a — " 


WHY    THOMAS    WAS  DISCHARGED.          149 

His  mind  was  unequal  to  a  simile  even,  and  he 
terminated  the  sentence  in  a  murmur. 

More    silence  ;    more    smoke  ;    more    profound 
meditation.     Directly    Charley    Burnham    looked 
around  with  some  show  of  vitality. 
'  There  comes  the  stage,"  said  he. 

The  driver's  bugle  rang  merrily  among  the  drifted 
sand-hills  that  lay  warm  and  glowing  in  the  orange 
light  of  the  setting  sun.  The  young  men  leaned 
forward  over  the  piazza-rail  and  scrutinized  the 
occupants  of  the  vehicle  as  it  appeared. 

"  Old  gentleman  and  lady,  aw,  and  two  chil- 
dren," said  Ned  Salsbury  ;  "  I  hoped  there  would 
be  some  nice  girls." 

This,  in  a  voice  of  ineffable  tenderness  and  poetry, 
but  with  that  odd,  tired  little  drawl,  so  epidemic 
in  some  of  our  universities. 

"  Look  there,  by  Jove  !"  cried  Charley,  with  a 
real  interest  at  last  ;  "  now  that's  what  I  call  a  reg- 
ular thing  1" 

The  "regular  thing"  was  a  low,  four-wheeled 
pony-chaise  of  basket-work,  drawn  by  two  jolly 
little  fat  ponies,  black  and  shiny  as  vulcanite, 
which  jogged  rapidly  in,  just  far  enough  behind 
the  stage  to  avoid  its  dust. 

This  vehicle  was  driven  by  a  young  lady  of  de- 
cided beauty,  with  a  spice  of  Amazonian  spirit. 
She  was  rather  slender  and  very  straight,  with  a 
jaunty  little  hat  and  feather  perched  coquettishly 
above  her  dark  brown  hair,  which  was  arranged  in 
one  heavy  mass  and  confined  in  a  silken  net.  Her 


150          WHY   THOMAS    WAS  DISCHARGED. 

complexion  was  clear,  without  brilliancy  ;  her  eyes 
blue  as  the  ocean  horizon,  and  spanned  by  sharp, 
characteristic  brows  ;  her  mouth  small  and  deci- 
sive ;  and  her  whole  cast  of  features  indicative  of 
quick  talent  and  independence. 

Upon  the  seat  beside  her  sat  another  damsel, 
leaning  indolently  back  in  the  corner  of  the  car- 
riage. This  one  was  a  little  fairer  than  the  first, 
having  on£  of  those  beautiful  English  complexions 
of  mingled  rose  and  snow,  and  a  dash  of  gold-dust 
in  her  hair  where  the  sun  touched  it.  Her  eyes, 
however,  were  dark  hazel  and  full  of  fire,  shaded 
and  intensified  by  their  long,  sweeping  lashes. 
Her  mouth  was  a  rosebud,  and  her  chin  and 
throat  faultless  in  the  delicious  curve  of  their  lines. 
In  a  word,  she  was  somewhat  of  the  Venus-di-Milo 
type  ;  her  companion  was  more  of  a  Diana.  Both 
were  neatly  habited  in  plain  travelling-dresses  and 
cloaks  of  black  and  white  plaid,  and  both  seemed 
utterly  unconscious  of  the  battery  of  eyes  and  eye- 
glasses that  enfiladed  them  from  the  whole  length 
of  the  piazza,  as  they  passed. 

"Who  are  they?"  asked  Salsbury  ;  "I  don't 
know  them." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Burnham  ;  "  but  they  look  like 
people  to  know.  They  must  be  somebody." 

Half  an  hour  later  the  hotel-office  was  besieged 
by  a  score  of  young  men,  all  anxious  for  a  peep  at 
the  last  names  upon  the  register.  It  is  needless  to 
say  that  our  friends  were  not  in  the  crowd.  Ned 
Salsbury  was  no  more  the  man  to  exhibit  curiosity 


WHY   THOMAS    WAS  DISCHARGED.          151 

than  Charley  Burnham  was  the  man  to  join  in  a 
scramble  for  anything  under  the  sun.  They  had 
educated  their  emotions  clear  down,  out  of  sight, 
and  piled  upon  them  a  mountain  of  well-bred  in- 
ertia. 

But,  somehow  or  other,  these  fellows  who  take 
no  trouble  are  always  the  first  to  gain  the  end.  A 
special  Providence  seems  to  aid  the  poor,  helpless 
creatures.  So,  while  the  crowd  still  pressed  at  the 
office-desk,  Jerry  Swayne,  the  head  clerk,  happened 
to  pass  directly  by  the  piazza  where  the  inert  ones 
sat,  and,  raising  a  comical  eye,  saluted  them. 

"  Heavy  arrivals  to-night.     See  the  turnout  ?" 

"  Y-e-s,"  murmured  Ned. 

"  Old  Chapman  and  family.  His  daughter  drove 
the  pony-phaeton,  with  her  friend,  a  Miss  Thurs- 
ton.  Regular  nobby  ones.  Chapman's  the  steam- 
ship man,  you  know.  Worth  thousands  of  mill- 
ions !  I'd  like  to  be  connected  with  his  family — by 
marriage,  say  !" — and  Jerry  went  off,  rubbing  his 
cropped  head  and  smiling  all  over,  as  was  his  wont. 

"  I  know  who  they  are  now,"  said  Charley. 
"  Met  a  cousin  of  theirs,  Joe  Faulkner,  abroad  two 
years  ago.  Dooc^d  fine  fellow.  Army." 

The  manly  art  of  wagoning  is  not  pursued  vigor- 
ously at  Brant  Beach.  The  roads  are  too  heavy 
back  from  the  water,  and  the  drive  is  confined  to  a 
narrow  strip  of  wet  sand  along  the  shore  ;  so  car- 
riages are  few,  and  the  pony-chaise  became  a  dis- 
tinguished element  at  once.  Salsbury  and  Burn- 
ham  whirled  past  it  in  their  light  trotting-wagons 


152  WHY   THOMAS    WAS  DISCHARGED. 

at  a  furious  pace,  and  looked  hard  at  the  two 
young  ladies  in  passing,  but  without  eliciting  even 
the  smallest  glance  from  them  in  return. 

"  Confounded  dtsttngue-lookmg  girls,  and  all 
that,"  owned  Ned,  "  but,  aw,  fearfully  unconscious 
of  a  fellow  !" 

This  condition  of  matters  continued  until  the 
young  men  were  actually  driven  to  acknowledge 
to  each  other  that  they  should  not  mind  knowing 
the  occupants  of  the  pony  carriage.  It  was  a  great 
concession,  and  was  rewarded  duly.  A  bright, 
handsome  boy  of  seventeen,  Miss  Thurston's 
brother,  came  to  pass  a  few  days  at  the  seaside, 
and  fraternized  with  everybody,  but  was  especially 
delighted  with  Ned  Salsbury,  who  took  him  out 
sailing  and  shooting,  and,  I  am  afraid,  gave  him 
cigars  stealthily,  when  out  of  range  of  Miss  Thurs- 
ton's fine  eyes.  The  result  was  that  the  first  time 
the  lad  walked  on  the  beach  with  the  two  girls  and 
met  the  young  man,  introductions  of  an  enthusi- 
astic nature  were  instantly  sprung  upon  them.  An 
attempt  at  conversation  followed. 

"  How  do  you  like  Brant  Beach  ?"  asked  Ned. 

"  Oh,  it  is  a  very  pretty  place,"  said  Miss  Chap- 
man, "  but  not  lively  enough." 

"  Well,  Burnham  and  I  find  it  pleasant  ;  aw,  we 
have  lots  of  fun." 

"  Indeed  !     Why,  what  do  you  do  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.     Everything." 

"  Is  the  shooting  good  ?  I  saw  you  with  your 
guns  yesterday." 


WHY   THOMAS    WAS  DISCHARGED.          153 

"  Well,  there  isn't  a  great  deal  of  game.  There 
is  some  fishing,  but  we  haven't  caught  much." 

"  How  do  you  kill  time,  then  ?" 

Salsbury  looked  puzzled. 

"  Aw — it  is  a  first-rate  air,  you  know.  The  table 
is  good,  and  you  can  sleep  like  a  top.  And  then, 
you  see,  I  like  to  smoke  around,  and  do  nothing, 
on  the  sea-shore.  It  is  real  jolly  to  lie  on  the 
sand,  aw,  with  all  sorts  of  little  bugs  running  over 
you,  and  listen  to  the  water  swashing  about  !" 

"  Let's  try  it  !"  cried  vivacious  Miss  Chapman  ; 
and  down  she  sat  on  the  sand.  The  others  fol- 
lowed her  example,  and  in  five  minutes  they  were 
picking  up  pretty  pebbles  and  chatting  away  as 
sociably  as  could  be.  The  rumbling  of  the  warn- 
ing gong  surprised  them. 

At  dinner  Burnham  and  Salsbury  took  seats  op- 
posite the  ladies,  and  were  honored  with  an  intro- 
duction to  papa  and  mamma,  a  very  dignified, 
heavy,  rosy,  old-school  couple,  who  ate  a  good 
deal  and  said  very  little.  That  evening,  when 
flute  and  viol  wooed  the  lotos-eaters  to  agitate  the 
light  fantastic  toe,  these  young  gentlemen  found 
themselves  in  dancing  humor,  and  revolved  them- 
selves into  a  grievous  condition  of  glow  and  wilt  in 
various  mystic  and  intoxicating  measures  with 
their  new-made  friends. 

On  retiring,  somewhat  after  midnight,  Miss 
Thurston  paused  while  "  doing  her  hair,"  and  ad- 
dressed Miss  Chapman. 

"  Did  you  observe,  Hattie,  how  very  handsome 


154  WHY   THOMAS    WAS  DISCHARGED. 

those  gentlemen  are  ?  Mr.  Burnham  looks  like  a 
prince  of  the  sang  azur,  and  Mr.  Salsbury  like  his 
poet-laureate." 

"  Yes,  dear,"  responded  Hattie  ;  "  I  have  been 
considering  those  flowers  of  the  field  and  lilies  of 
the  valley." 

"  Ned,"  said  Charlie,  at  about  the  same  time, 
"  we  won't  find  anything  nicer  here  this  season,  I 
think." 

"  They're  pretty  worth  while,"  replied  Ned, 
"  and  I'm  rather  pleased  with  them." 

"  Which  do  you  like  best  ?" 

"  Oh,  bother  !     I  haven't  thought  of  that  yet." 

The  next  day  the  young  men  delayed  their 
"constitutional"  until  the  ladies  were  ready  to 
walk,  and  the  four  strolled  off  together,  mamma 
and  the  children  following  in  the  pony-chaise.  At 
the  rocks  on  the  end  of  the  point  Ned  got  his  feet 
very  wet  fishing  up  specimens  of  seaweed  for  the 
damsels  ;  and  Charley  exerted  himself  super- 
humanly  in  assisting  them  to  a  ledge  which  they 
considered  favorable  for  sketching  purposes. 

In  the  afternoon  a  sail  was  arranged,  and  they 
took  dinner  on  board  the  boat,  with  any  amount  of 
hilarity  and  a  good  deal  of  discomfort.  In  the 
evening  more  dancing  and  vigorous  attentions  to 
both  the  young  ladies,  but  without  a  shadow  of 
partiality  being  shown  by  either  of  the  four. 

This  was  very  nearly  the  history  of  many  days. 
It  does  not  take  long  to  get  acquainted  with  people 
who  are  willing,  especially  at  watering-places  ;  and 


WHY    THOMAS    WAS  DISCHARGED.          155 

in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  these  young  folks 
were,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  old  friends — call- 
ing each  other  by  their  given  names,  and  conduct- 
ing themselves  with  an  easy  familiarity  quite 
charming  to  behold.  Their  amusements  were 
mostly  in  common  now.  The  light  wagons  were 
made  to  hold  two  each  instead  of  one,  and  the 
matinal  snipe  escaped  death,  and  was  happy  over 
his  early  worm. 

One  day,  however,  Laura  Thurston  had  a  head- 
ache, and  Hattie  Chapman  stayed  at  home  to  take 
care  of  her  ;  so  Burnham  and  Salsbury  had  to 
amuse  themselves  alone.  They  took  their  boat  and 
idled  about  the  waters  inside  the  point,  dozing 
under  an  awning,  smoking,  gaping,  and  wishing 
that  headaches  were  out  of  fashion,  while  the  taci- 
turn and  tarry  skipper  instructed  the  dignified  and 
urbane  Thomas  in  the  science  of  trolling  for  blue- 
fish. 

At  length  Ned  tossed  his  cigar-end  overboard 
and  braced  himself  for  an  effort. 

"  I  say,  Charlie,"  said  he,  "  this  sort  of  thing 
can't  go  on  forever,  you  know.  I've  been  think- 
ing lately." 

"  Phenomenon  !"  replied  Charlie;  "and  what 
have  you  been  thinking  about  ?" 

"  Those  girls.     We've  got  to  choose." 

"  Why  ?     Isn't  it  well  enough  as  it  is  ?" 

"  Yes — so  far.  But  I  think,  aw^  that  we  don't 
quite  do  them  justice.  They're  grands  partis,  you 
see.  I  hate  to  see  clever  girls  wasting  themselves 


156          WHY   THOMAS    WAS  DISCHARGED. 

on  society,  waiting  and  waiting,  and  we  fellows 
swimming  about  just  like  fish  around  a  hook  that 
isn't  baited  properly." 

Charley  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  Ned,  that  you  have 
matrimonial  intentions  ?" 

"Oh,  no!  Still,  why  not?  We've  all  got  to 
come  to  it  some  day,  I  suppose. " 

"Not  yet,  though.  It  is  a  sacrifice  we  can 
escape  for  some  years  yet. " 

"  Yes — of  course — some  years  ;  but  we  may  be- 
gin to  look  about  us  a  bit.  I'm,  aw,  I'm  six  and 
twenty,  you  know." 

"  And  I'm  very  near  that.  I  suppose  a  fellow 
can't  put  off  the  yoke  too  long.  After  thirty 
chances  aren't  so  good.  I  don't  know,  by  Jove  ! 
but  what  we  ought  to  begin  thinking  of  it. " 

41  But  it  is  a  sacrifice.  Society  must  lose  a  fel- 
low, though,  onetime  or  another.  And  I  don't  be- 
lieve we  will  ever  do  better  than  we  can  now." 

"  Hardly,  I  suspect." 

"  And  we're  keeping  other  fellows  away,  maybe. 
It  is  a  shame  !" 

Thomas  ran  his  line  in  rapidly,  with  nothing  on 
the  hook. 

"  Cap'n  Hull,"  he  said,  gravely,  "  I  had  the  big- 
gest kind  of  a  fish  then  I'm  sure  ;  but  d'rectly  I 
went  to  pull  him  in,  sir,  he  took  and  let  go. " 

"  Yaas,"  muttered  the  taciturn  skipper,  "  the 
biggest  fish  allers  falls  back  inter  the  warter." 

"  I've  been   thinking  a  little  about  this  matter, 


WHY    THOMAS    WAS  DISCHARGED.          157 

too,"  said  Charlie,  after  a  pause,  "and  I  had 
about  concluded  we  ought  to  pair  off.  But  I'll  be 
confounded  if  I  know  which  is  the  best  !  They're 
both  nice  girls." 

"  There  isn't  much  choice,"  Ned  replied.  "  If 
they  were  as  different,  now,  as  you  and  me,  I'd 
take  the  blonde,  of  course,  aw,  and  you'd  take  the 
brunette.  But  Hattie  Chapman's  eyes  are  blue, 
and  her  hair  isn't  black,  you  know,  so  you  can't 
call  her  dark,  exactly." 

"  No  more  than  Laura  is  exactly  light.  Her 
hair  is  brown  more  than  golden,  and  her  eyes  are 
hazel.  Hasn't  she  a  lovely  complexion,  though? 
By  Jove  !" 

"  Better  than  Hattie' s.  Yet  I  don't  know  but 
Hattie's  features  are  a  little  the  best." 

"  They  are.  Now,  honest,  Ned,  which  do  you 
prefer  ?  Say  either  ;  I'll  take  the  one  you  don't 
want.  I  haven't  any  choice." 

"Neither  have  I." 

"How  shall  we  settle?" 

"  Aw,  throw  for  it  ?" 

"Yes.  Isn't  there  a  backgammon  board  for- 
ward, in  that  locker,  Thomas  ?" 

The  board  was  found  and  the  dice  produced. 

"  The  highest  takes  which  ?" 

"  Say  Laura  Thurston." 

"  Very  good  ;  throw." 

"  You  first." 

"  No.     Go  on." 

Charlie  threw  with  about  the  same  amount  of 


158  WHY   THOMAS    WAS  DISCHARGED. 

excitement  he  might  have  exhibited  in  a  turkey 
raffle. 

"Five-three,"    said  he  ;   "  now  for  your  luck." 

"  Six-four  !     Laura's  mine.     Satisfied  ?" 

"  Perfectly— if  you  are.  If  not,  I  don't  mind 
exchanging." 

"  Oh,  no.     I'm  satisfied." 

Both  reclined  upon  the  deck  once  more  with  a 
sigh  of  relief,  and  a  long  silence  followed. 

"  I  say,"  began  Charlie,  after  a  time,  "it  is  a 
comfort  to  have  these  little  matters  arranged  with- 
out any  trouble,  eh  ?" 

"Y-e-s." 

"  Do  you  know,  I  think  I'll  marry  mine  ?" 

"  I  will,  if  you  will." 

"  Done  !     It  is  a  bargain." 

This  "little  matter"  being  arranged,  a  change 
gradually  took  place  in  the  relations  of  the  four. 
Ned  Salsbury  began  to  invite  Laura  Thurston  out 
driving  and  bathing  somewhat  oftener  than  be- 
fore, and  Hattie  Chapman  somewhat  less  often  ; 
while  Charlie  Burnham  followed  suit  with  the  last- 
named  young  lady.  As  the  line  of  demarcation 
became  fixed,  the  damsels  recognized  it,  and  ac- 
cepted with  gracious  readiness  the  cavaliers  that 
Fate,  through  the  agency  of  a  chance-falling  pair 
of  dice,  had  allotted  to  them. 

The  other  guests  of  the  house  remarked  the  new 
position  of  affairs,  and  passed  whispers  about  it  to 
the  effect  that  the  girls  had  at  last  succeeded  in 
getting  their  fish  on  hooks  instead  of  in  a  net.  No 


WHY   THOMAS    WAS  DISCHARGED.          159 

suitors  could  have  been  more  devoted  than  our 
friends.  It  seemed  as  if  each  knight  bestowed 
upon  the  chosen  one  all  the  attentions  he  had 
hitherto  given  to  both  ;  and  whether  they  went 
boating,  sketching,  or  strolling  upon  the  sands, 
they  were  the  very  picture  of  a  partie  carree  of 
lovers. 

Naturally  enough,  as  the  young  men  became  more 
in  earnest,  with  the  reticence  common  to  my  sex 
they  spoke  less  frequently  and  freely  on  the  sub- 
ject. Once,  however,  after  an  unusually  pleasant 
afternoon,  Salsbury  ventured  a  few  words. 

"  I  say,  we're  a  couple  of  lucky  dogs  !  Who'd 
have  thought  now,  aw,  that  our  summer  was  going 
to  turn  out  so  well  ?  I'm  sure  I  didn't.  How  do 
you  get  along,  Charley,  boy  ?" 

"  Deliciously.  Smooth  sailing  enough.  Wasn't 
it  a  good  idea,  though,  to  pair  off?  I'm  just  as 
happy  as  a  bee  in  clover.  You  seem  to  prosper, 
too,  heh?" 

"  Couldn't  ask  anything  different.  Nothing 
but  devotion,  and  all  that.  I'm  delighted.  I  say, 
when  are  you  going  to  pop  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  It  is  only  a  matter  of 
form.  Sooner  the  better,  I  suppose,  and  have  it 
over." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  next  week.  What  do  you 
say  to  a  quiet  picnic  down  on  the  rocks,  and  a 
walk  afterwards  ?  We  can  separate,  you  know, 
and  do  the  thing  up  systematically." 

"  All  right.     I  will,  if  you  will." 


160          WHY   THOMAS    WAS  DISCHARGED. 

"  That's  another  bargain.  I  notice  there  isn't 
much  doubt  about  the  results." 

44  Hardly  !" 

A  close  observer  might  have  seen  that  the  gen- 
tlemen increased  their  attentions  a  little  from  time 
to  time.  The  objects  of  their  devotion  perceived 
it,  and  smiled  more  and  more  graciously  upon 
them. 

The  day  set  for  the  picnic  arrived  duly,  and  was 
radiant.  It  pains  me  to  confess  that  my  heroes 
were  a  trifle  nervous.  Their  apparel  was  more 
gorgeous  and  wonderful  than  ever,  and  Thomas, 
who  was  anxious  to  be  off  courting  Miss  Chap- 
man's lady's-maid,  found  his  masters  dreadfully 
exacting  in  the  matter  of  hair-dressing.  At  length, 
however,  the  toilet  was  over,  and  "  Solomon  in  all 
his  glory"  would  have  been  vastly  astonished  at 
finding  himself  "  arrayed  as  one  of  these." 

The  boat  lay  at  the  pier,  receiving  large  quan- 
tities of  supplies  for  the  trip,  stowed  by  Thomas, 
under  the  supervision  of  the  grim  and  tarry  skip- 
per. When  all  was  ready  the  young  men  gingerly 
escorted  their  fair  companions  aboard,  the  lines 
were  cast  off,  and  the  boat  glided  gently  down  the 
bay,  leaving  Thomas  free  to  fly  to  the  smart  pres- 
ence of  Susan  Jane  and  to  draw  glowing  pictures 
for  her  of  a  neat  little  porter-house  in  the  city, 
wherein  they  should  hold  supreme  sway,  be  happy 
with  each  other,  and  let  rooms  up-stairs  for  single 
gentlemen. 

The  brisk  land  breeze  swelling  the  sail,  the  flut- 


WHY   THOMAS    WAS  DISCHARGED.          161 

taring  of  the  gay  little  flag  at  the  gaff,  the  musical 
rippling  of  water  under  the  counter,  and  the 
spirited  motion  of  the  boat  combined,  with  the 
bland  air  and  pleasant  sunshine,  to  inspire  the 
party  with  much  vivacity.  They  had  not  been 
many  minutes  afloat  before  the  guitar-case  was 
opened,  and  the  girls'  voices — Laura's  soprano  and 
Hattie's  contralto — rang  melodiously  over  the 
waves,  mingled  with  feeble  attempt  at  bass  accom- 
paniment from  their  gorgeous  guardians. 

Before  these  vocal  exercises  wearied,  the  skipper 
hauled  down  his  jib,  let  go  his  anchor,  and  brought 
the  craft  to  just  off  the  rocks  ;  and  bringing  the 
yawl  alongside,  unceremoniously  plucked  the  girls 
down  into  it,  without  giving  their  cavaliers  a  chance 
for  the  least  display  of  agile  courtliness.  Rowing 
ashore,  this  same  tarry  person  left  them  huddled 
upon  the  beach,  with  their  hopes,  their  hampers, 
their  emotions,  and  their  baskets,  and  returned  to 
the  vessel  to  do  a  little  private  fishing  on  his  own 
account  till  wanted. 

The  maidens  gave  vent  to  their  high  spirits  by 
chasing  each  other  among  the  rocks,  gathering 
shells  and  seaweed  for  the  construction  of  those 
ephemeral  little  ornaments — fair,  but  frail — in 
which  the  sex  delights,  singing,  laughing,  quoting 
poetry,  attitudinizing  upon  the  peaks  and  ledges 
of  the  fine  old  boulders — mossy  and  weedy  and 
green  with  the  wash  of  a  thousand  storms,  worn 
into  strange  shapes,  and  stained  with  the  multitu- 
dinous dyes  of  mineral  oxidization — and,  in  brief, 


162  WHY    THOMAS    WAS  DISCHARGED. 

behaved  themselves  with  all  the  charming  abandon 
that  so  well  becomes  young  girls  set  free,  by  the 
entourage  of  a  holiday  ramble,  from  the  buckram 
and  clear-starch  of  social  etiquette. 

Meanwhile  Ned  and  Charley  smoked  the  pensive 
cigar  of  preparation  in  a  sheltered  corner,  and 
gazed  out  seaward,  dreaming  and  seeing  nothing. 

Erelong  the  breeze  and  the  romp  gave  the 
young  ladies  not  only  a  splendid  color  and  spark- 
ling eyes,  but  excellent  appetites  also.  The  baskets 
and  hampers  were  speedily  unpacked,  the  table- 
cloth laid  on  a  broad,  flat  stone,  so  used  by  gen- 
erations of  Brant  House  picnickers,  and  the  party 
fell  to.  Laura's  beautiful  hair,  a  little  disordered, 
swept  her  blooming  cheek,  and  cast  a  pearly  shadow 
upon  her  neck.  Her  bright  eyes  glanced  archly 
out  from  under  her  half-raised  veil,  and  there  was 
something  inexpressibly  naive  in  the  freedom  with 
which  she  ate,  taking  a  bird's  wing  in  her  fingers, 
and  boldly  attacking  it  with  teeth  as  white  and  even 
as  can  be  imagined.  Notwithstanding  all  the 
mawkish  nonsense  that  has  been  put  forth  by  senti- 
mentalists concerning  feminine  eating,  I  hold 
that  it  is  one  of  the  nicest  things  in  the  world  to 
see  a  pretty  woman  enjoying  the  creature  com- 
forts ;  and  Byron  himself,  had  he  been  one  of  this 
picnic  party,  would  have  been  unable  to  resist  the 
admiration  that  filled  the  souls  of  Burnham  and 
Salsbury.  Hattie  Chapman  stormed  the  fortress 
of  boned  turkey  with  a  gusto  equal  to  that  of 
Laura,  and  made  highly  successful  raids  upon  cer- 


WHY   THOMAS    WAS  DISCHARGED.  163 

tain  outlying  salads  and  jellies.  The  young  men 
were  not  in  a  very  ravenous  condition  ;  they  were, 
as  I  have  said,  a  little  nervous,  and  bent  their 
energies  principally  to  admiring  the  ladies  and 
coquetting  with  pickled  oysters. 

When  the  repast  was  over,  with  much  accom- 
panying chat  and  laughter,  Ned  glanced  signifi- 
cantly at  Charley,  and  proposed  to  Laura  that 
they  should  walk  up  the  beach  to  a  place  where, 
he  said,  there  were  "  some  pretty  rocks  and 
things,  you  know."  She  consented,  and  they 
marched  off.  Hattie  also  arose,  and  took  her  para- 
sol, as  if  to  follow,  but  Charley  remained  seated, 
tracing  mysterious  diagrams  upon  the  table-cloth 
with  his  fork,  and  looked  sublimely  unconscious. 

"  Sha'n't  we  walk,  too  ?"  Hattie  asked. 

"  Oh,  why,  the  fact  is,"  said  he,  hesitatingly,  "  I 
— I  sprained  my  ankle  getting  out  of  that  con- 
founded boat,  so  I  don't  feel  much  like  exercising 
just  now." 

The  young  girl's  face  expressed  concern. 

"  That  is  too  bad  !  Why  didn't  you  tell  us  of  it 
before  ?  Is  it  painful  ?  I'm  so  sorry  !" 

"  N-no — it  doesn't  hurt  much.  I  dare  say  it  will 
be  all  right  in  a  minute.  And  then — I'd  just  as 
soon  stay  here — with  you — as  to  walk  anywhere." 

This  very  tenderly,  with  a  little  sigh. 

Hattie  sat  down  again,  and  began  to  talk  to  this 
factitious  cripple  in  the  pleasant,  purring  way  some 
damsels  have,  about  the  joys  of  the  sea-shore,  the 
happy  summer  that  was,  alas  !  drawing  to  a  close, 


164  WHY   THOMAS    WAS  DISCHARGED. 

her  own  enjoyment  of  life,  and  kindred  topics,  till 
Charley  saw  an  excellent  opportunity  to  interrupt 
with  some  aspirations  of  his  own,  which,  he 
averred,  must  be  realized  before  his  life  would  be 
considered  a  satisfactory  success. 

If  you  had  ever  been  placed  in  analogous  circum- 
stances, you  know,  of  course,  just  about  the  sort  of 
thing  that  was  being  said  by  the  two  gentlemen  at 
nearly  the  same  moment  :  Ned,  loitering  slowly 
along  the  sands  with  Laura  on  his  arm,  and 
Charley,  stretched  in  indolent  picturesqueness 
upon  the  rocks,  with  Hattie  sitting  beside  him.  If 
you  do  not  know  from  experience,  ask  any  candid 
friend  who  has  been  through  the  form  and  cere- 
mony of  an  orthodox  proposal. 

When  the  pedestrians  returned  the  two  couples 
looked  very  hard  at  each  other.  All  were  smiling 
and  complacent,  but  devoid  of  any  strange  or  un- 
usual expression.  Indeed,  the  countenance  is  sub- 
ject to  such  severe  education,  in  good  society,  that 
one  almost  always  looks  smiling  and  complacent. 
Demonstration  is  not  fashionable,  and  a  man  must 
preserve  the  same  demeanor  over  the  loss  of  a  wife 
or  a  glove-button,  over  the  gift  of  a  heart's  whole 
devotion  or  a  bundle  of  cigars.  Under  all  these 
visitations  the  complacent  smile  is  in  favor  as  the 
neatest,  most  serviceable,  and  convenient  form  of 
non-committalism. 

The  sun  was  approaching  the  blue  range  of  misty 
hills  that  bounded  the  mainland  swamps  by  this 
time  ;  so  the  skipper  was  signalled,  the  dinner 


WHY    THOMAS    WAS  DISCHARGED.          165 

paraphernalia  gathered  up,  and  the  party  were 
soon  en  route  for  home  once  more.  When  the 
young  ladies  were  safely  in,  Ned  and  Charley  met 
in  their  room,  and  each  caught  the  other  looking 
at  him  stealthily.  Both  smiled. 

"Did  I  give  you  time,  Charley?"  asked  Ned; 
'*  we  came  back  rather  soon." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  plenty  of  time." 

"  Did  you — aw,  did  you  pop  ?" 

"  Y-yes.     Did  you  ?" 

"  Well— yes." 

"  And  you  were — " 

"  Rejected,  by  Jove  !" 

"  So  was  I  !" 

The  day  following  this  disastrous  picnic  the  bag- 
gage of  Mr.  Edwin  Salsbury  and  Mr.  Charles  Burn- 
ham  was  sent  to  the  depot  at  Wikhasset  Station, 
and  they  presented  themselves  at  the  hotel-office 
with  a  request  for  their  bill.  As  Jerry  Swayne  de- 
posited their  key  upon  its  hook,  he  drew  forth  a 
small  tri-cornered  billet  from  the  pigeon-hole  be- 
neath, and  presented  it. 

"  Left  for  you  this  morning,  gentlemen." 

It  was  directed  to  both,  and  Charley  read  it  over 
Ned's  shoulder.  It  ran  thus  : 

"  DEAR  BOYS  :  The  next  time  you  divert  your- 
selves by  throwing  dice  for  two  young  ladies,  we 
pray  you  not  to  do  so  in  the  presence  of  a  valet 
who  is  upon  terms  of  intimacy  with  the  maid  of 
one  of  them. 


1 66  WHY    THOMAS    WAS  DISCHARGED. 

"  With  many  sincere  thanks  for  the  amusement 
you  have  given  us — often  when  you  least  suspected 
it — we  bid  you  a  lasting  adieu,  and  remain,  with 
the  best  wishes, 

"  HATTIE  CHAPMAN, 
"  LAURA  THURSTON. 
"Brant  House, 

"Wednesday." 

"  It  is  all  the  fault  of  that,  aw — that  confounded 
Thomas  !"  said  Ned. 

So  Thomas  was  discharged. 


THE  TACHYPOMP. 

A  MATHEMATICAL  DEMONSTRATION. 

BY  E.  P.  MITCHELL. 


THERE  was  nothing  mysterious  about  Profes- 
sor Surd's  dislike  for  me.  I  was  the  only 
poor  mathematician  in  an  exceptionally  mathe- 
matical class.  The  old  gentleman  sought  the  lect- 
ure-room every  morning  with  eagerness,  and  left  it 
reluctantly.  For  was  it  not  a  thing  of  joy  to  find 
seventy  young  men  who,  individually  and  collect- 
ively, preferred  x  to  XX  ;  who  had  rather  differen- 
tiate than  dissipate  ;  and  for  whom  the  limbs  of 
the  heavenly  bodies  had  more  attractions  than 
those  of  earthly  stars  upon  the  spectacular  stage  ? 
So  affairs  went  on  swimmingly  between  the  Pro- 
fessor of  Mathematics  and  the  Junior  Class  at 
Polyp  University.  In  every  man  of  the  seventy 
the  sage  saw  the  logarithm  of  a  possible  La  Place, 

***  Scribbler's  Monthly,  March,  1874. 


1 68  THE    TACffYPOMP. 

of  a  Sturm,  or  of  a  Newton.  It  was  a  delightful 
task  for  him  to  lead  them  through  the  pleasant 
valleys  of  conic  sections,  and  beside  the  still  waters 
of  the  integral  calculus.  Figuratively  speaking, 
his  problem  was  not  a  hard  one.  He  had  only  to 
manipulate,  and  eliminate,  and  to  raise  to  a  higher 
power,  and  the  triumphant  result  of  examination 
day  was  assured. 

But  I  was  a  disturbing  element,  a  perplexing  un- 
known quantity,  which  had  somehow  crept  into 
the  work,  and  which  seriously  threatened  to  impair 
the  accuracy  of  his  calculations.  It  was  a  touching 
sight  to  behold  the  venerable  mathematician  as  he 
pleaded  with  me  not  so  utterly  to  disregard  prece- 
dent in  the  use  of  cotangents  ;  or  as  he  urged,  with 
eyes  almost  tearful,  that  ordinates  were  dangerous 
things  to  trifle  with.  All  in  vain.  More  theorems 
went  on  to  my  cuff  than  into  my  head.  Never  did 
chalk  do  so  much  work  to  so  little  purpose.  And, 
therefore,  it  came  that  Furnace  Second  was  re- 
duced to  zero  in  Professor  Surd's  estimation.  He 
looked  upon  me  with  all  the  horror  which  an  un- 
algebraic  nature  could  inspire.  I  have  seen  the 
Professor  walk  around  an  entire  square  rather 
than  meet  the  man  who  had  no  mathematics  in 
his  soul. 

For  Furnace  Second  were  no  invitations  to  Pro- 
fessor Surd's  house.  Seventy  of  the  class  supped 
in  delegations  around  the  periphery  of  the  Profes- 
sor's tea-table.  The  seventy-first  knew  nothing  of 
the  charms  of  that  perfect  ellipse,  with  its  twin 


THE    TACHYPOMP.  169 

bunches  of  fuchsias  and  geraniums  in  gorgeous 
precision  at  the  two  foci. 

This,  unfortunately  enough,  was  no  trifling  de- 
privation. Not  that  I  longed  especially  for  seg- 
ments of  Mrs.  Surd's  justly  celebrated  lemon  pies  ; 
not  that  the  spheroidal  damsons  of  her  excellent 
preserving  had  any  marked  allurements  ;  not  even 
that  I  yearned  to  hear  the  Professor's  jocose  table- 
talk  about  binomials,  and  chatty  illustrations  of 
abstruse  paradoxes.  The  explanation  is  far  differ- 
ent. Professor  Surd  had  a  daughter.  Twenty 
years  before,  he  made  a  proposition  of  marriage  to 
the  present  Mrs.  S.  He  added  a  little  Corollary 
to  his  proposition  not  long  after.  The  Corollary 
was  a  girl. 

Abscissa  Surd  was  as  perfectly  symmetrical  as 
Giotto's  circle,  and  as  pure,  withal,  as  the  mathe- 
matics her  father  taught.  It  was  just  when  spring 
was  coming  to  extract  the  roots  of  frozen-up  vege- 
tation that  I  fell  in  love  with  the  Corollary.  That 
she  herself  was  not  indifferent  I  soon  had  reason  to 
regard  as  a  self-evident  truth. 

The  sagacious  reader  will  already  recognize 
nearly  all  the  elements  necessary  to  a  well-ordered 
plot.  We  have  introduced  a  heroine,  inferred  a 
hero,  and  constructed  a  hostile  parent  after  the 
most  approved  model.  A  movement  for  the  story, 
a  Deus  ex  machina,  is  alone  lacking.  With  consid- 
erable satisfaction  I  can  promise  a  perfect  novelty 
in  this  line,  a  Deus  ex  machina  never  before  offered 
to  the  public. 


1 70  THE    TACHYPOMP. 

It  would  be  discounting  ordinary  intelligence  to 
say  that  I  sought  with  unwearying  assiduity  to  fig- 
ure my  way  into  the  stern  father's  good-will  ;  that 
never  did  dullard  apply  himself  to  mathematics 
more  patiently  than  I  ;  that  never  did  faithfulness 
achieve  such  meagre  reward.  Then  I  engaged  a 
private  tutor.  His  instructions  met  with  no  better 
success. 

My  tutor's  name  was  Jean  Marie  Rivarol.  He 
was  a  unique  Alsatian — though  Gallic  in  name, 
thoroughly  Teuton  in  nature  ;  by  birth  a  French- 
man, by  education  a  German.  His  age  was  thirty  ; 
his  profession,  omniscience  ;  the  wolf  at  his  door, 
poverty  ;  the  skeleton  in  his  closet,  a  consuming 
but  unrequited  passion.  The  most  recondite  prin- 
ciples of  practical  science  were  his  toys  ;  the  deep- 
est intricacies  of  abstract  science  his  diversions. 
Problems  which  were  foreordained  mysteries  to 
me  were  to  him  as  clear  as  Tahoe  water.  Perhaps 
this  very  fact  will  explain  our  lack  of  success  in  the 
relation  of  tutor  and  pupil  ;  perhaps  the  failure  is 
alone  due  to  my  own  unmitigated  stupidity.  Riv- 
arol had  hung  about  the  skirts  of  the  University  for 
several  years  ;  supplying  his  few  wants  by  writing 
for  scientific  journals,  or  by  giving  assistance  to 
students  who,  like  myself,  were  characterized  by  a 
plethora  of  purse  and  a  paucity  of  ideas  ;  cooking, 
studying  and  sleeping  in  his  attic  lodgings  ;  and 
prosecuting  queer  experiments  all  by  himself. 

We  were  not  long  discovering  that  even  this  ec- 
centric genius  could  not  transplant  brains  into  my 


THE    TACHYPOMP.  171 

deficient  skull.  I  gave  over  the  struggle  in  de- 
spair. An  unhappy  year  dragged  its  slow  length 
around.  A  gloomy  year  it  was,  brightened  only  by 
occasional  interviews  with  Abscissa,  the  Abbie  of 
my  thoughts  and  dreams. 

Commencement  day  was  coming  on  apace.  I 
was  soon  to  go  forth,  with  the  rest  of  my  class,  to 
astonish  and  delight  a  waiting  world.  The  Pro- 
fessor seemed  to  avoid  me  more  than  ever.  Noth- 
ing but  the  conventionalities,  I  think  kept  him 
from  shaping  his  treatment  of  me  on  the  basis  of 
unconcealed  disgust. 

At  last,  in  the  very  recklessness  of  despair,  I  re- 
solved to  see  him,  plead  with  him,  threaten  him  if 
need  be,  and  risk  all  my  fortunes  on  one  desperate 
chance.  I  wrote  him  a  somewhat  defiant  letter, 
stating  my  aspirations,  and,  as  I  flattered  myself, 
shrewdly  giving  him  a  week  to  get  over  the  first 
shock  of  horrified  surprise.  Then  I  was  to  call  and 
learn  my  fate. 

During  the  week  of  suspense  I  nearly  worried 
myself  into  a  fever.  It  was  first  crazy  hope,  and 
then  saner  despair.  On  Friday  evening,  when  I 
presented  myself  at  the  Professor's  door,  I  was 
such  a  haggard,  sleepy,  dragged-out  spectre,  that 
even  Miss  Jocasta,  the  harsh-favored  maiden  sister 
of  the  Surd's,  admitted  me  with  commiserate  re- 
gard, and  suggested  pennyroyal  tea. 

Professor  Surd  was  at  a  faculty  meeting.  Would 
I  wait  ? 

Yes,  till  all  was  blue,  if  need  be.     Miss  Abbie  ? 


172  THE    TACHYPOMP. 

Abscissa  had  gone  to  Wheelborough  to  visit  a 
school-friend.  The  aged  maiden  hoped  I  would 
make  myself  comfortable,  and  departed  to  the  un- 
known haunts  which  knew  Jocasta's  daily  walk. 

Comfortable  !  But  I  settled  myself  in  a  great 
uneasy  chair  and  waited,  with  the  contradictory 
spirit  common  to  such  junctures,  dreading  every 
step  lest  it  should  herald  the  man  whom,  of  all 
men,  I  wished  to  see. 

I  had  been  there  at  least  an  hour,  and  was  grow- 
ing right  drowsy. 

At  length  Professor  Surd  came  in.  He  sat  down 
in  the  dusk  opposite  me,  and  I  thought  his  eyes 
glinted  with  malignant  pleasure  as  he  said,  abrupt- 
ly: 

"  So,  young  man,  you  think  you  are  a  fit  hus- 
band for  my  girl  ?" 

I  stammered  some  inanity  about  making  up  in 
affection  what  I  lacked  in  merit  ;  about  my  expec- 
tations, family  and  the  like.  He  quickly  inter- 
rupted me. 

"  You  misapprehend  me,  sir.  Your  nature  is 
destitute  of  those  mathematical  perceptions  and  ac- 
quirements which  are  the  only  sure  foundations  of 
character.  You  have  no  mathematics  in  you.  You 
are  fit  for  treason,  stratagems,  and  spoils. — Shakes- 
peare. Your  narrow  intellect  cannot  understand 
and  appreciate  a  generous  mind.  There  is  all  the 
difference  between  you  and  a  Surd,  if  I  may  say 
it,  which  intervenes  between  an  infinitesimal  and 
an  infinite.  Why,  I  will  even  venture  to  say  that 


THE    TACHYPOMP.  173 

you  do  not  comprehend  the  Problem  of  the 
Couriers  !" 

I  admitted  that  the  Problem  of  the  Couriers 
should  be  classed  rather  without  my  list  of  accom- 
plishments than  within  it.  I  regretted  this  fault 
very  deeply,  and  suggested  amendment.  I  faintly 
hoped  that  my  fortune  would  be  such — 

"  Money  !"  he  impatiently  exclaimed.  "  Do 
you  seek  to  bribe  a  Roman  Senator  with  a  penny 
whistle  ?  Why,  boy,  do  you  parade  your  paltry 
wealth,  which,  expressed  in  mills,  will  not  cover 
ten  decimal  places,  before  the  eyes  of  a  man  who 
measures  the  planets  in  their  orbits,  and  close 
crowds  infinity  itself?" 

I  hastily  disclaimed  any  intention  of  obtruding 
my  foolish  dollars,  and  he  went  on  : 

"  Your  letter  surprised  me  not  a  little.  I 
thought  you  would  be  the  last  person  in  the  world 
to  presume  to  an  alliance  here.  But  having  a  re- 
gard for  you  personally" — and  again  I  saw  malice 
twinkle  in  his  small  eyes — "  and  still  more  regard 
for  Abscissa's  happiness,  I  have  decided  that  you 
shall  have  her — upon  conditions.  Upon  condi- 
tions," he  repeated,  with  a  half -smothered  sneer. 

"What  are  they?"  cried  I,  eagerly  enough. 
"  Only  name  them." 

"  Well,  sir,"  he  continued,  and  the  deliberation 
of  his  speech  seemed  the  very  refinement  of  cruel- 
ty, "  you  have  only  to  prove  yourself  worthy  an 
alliance  with  a  mathematical  family.  You  have 
only  to  accomplish  a  task  which  I  shall  presently 


174  THE    TACHYPOMP. 

give  you.  Your  eyes  ask  me  what  it  is.  I  will  tell 
you.  Distinguish  yourself  in  that  noble  branch  of 
abstract  science  in  which,  you  cannot  but  acknowl- 
edge, you  are  at  present  sadly  deficient.  I  will 
place  Abscissa's  hand  in  yours  whenever  you  shall 
come  before  me  and  square  the  circle  to  my  satis- 
faction. No  !  That  is  too  easy  a  condition.  I 
should  cheat  myself.  Say  perpetual  motion.  How 
do  you  like  that  ?  Do  you  think  it  lies  within  the 
range  of  your  mental  capabilities  ?  You  don't 
smile.  Perhaps  your  talents  don't  run  in  the  way 
of  perpetual  motion.  Several  people  have  found 
that  theirs  didn't.  I'll  give  you  another  chance. 
We  were  speaking  of  the  Problem  of  the  Couriers, 
and  I  think  you  expressed  a  desire  to  know  more 
of  that  ingenious  question.  You  shall  have  the 
opportunity.  Sit  down  some  day,  when  you  have 
nothing  else  to  do,  and  discover  the  principle  of 
infinite  speed.  I  mean  the  law  of  motion  which 
shall  accomplish  an  infinitely  great  distance  in  an 
infinitely  short  time.  You  may  mix  in  a  little 
practical  mechanics,  if  you  choose.  Invent  some 
method  of  taking  the  tardy  Courier  over  his  road 
at  the  rate  of  sixty  miles  a  minute.  Demonstrate 
me  this  discovery  (when  you  have  made  it  !) 
mathematically,  and  approximate  it  practically, 
and  Abscissa  is  yours.  Until  you  can,  I  will  thank 
you  to  trouble  neither  myself  nor  her." 

I  could  stand  his  mocking  no  longer.  I  stum- 
bled mechanically  out  of  the  room,  and  out  of  the 
house.  I  even  forgot  my  hat  and  gloves.  For  an 


THE    TACHYPOMP.  175 

hour  I  walked  in  the  moonlight.  Gradually  I  suc- 
ceeded to  a  more  hopeful  frame  of  mind.  This 
was  due  to  my  ignorance  of  mathematics.  Had  I 
understood  the  real  meaning  of  what  he  asked,  I 
should  have  been  utterly  despondent. 

Perhaps  this  problem  of  sixty  miles  a  minute  was 
not  so  impossible  after  all.  At  any  rate  I  could 
attempt,  though  I  might  not  succeed.  And  Rivarol 
came  to  my  mind.  I  would  ask  him.  I  would  en- 
list his  knowledge  to  accompany  my  own  devoted 
perseverance.  I  sought  his  lodgings  at  once. 

The  man  of  science  lived  in  the  fourth  story, 
back.  I  had  never  been  in  his  room  before. 
When  I  entered,  he  was  in  the  act  of  filling  a  beer 
mug  from  a  carboy  labelled  Aqua  fortis. 

"  Seat  you,"  he  said.  "  No,  not  in  that  chair. 
That  is  my  Petty  Cash  Adjuster."  But  he  was  a 
second  too  late.  I  had  carelessly  thrown  myself 
into  a  chair  of  seductive  appearance.  To  my  utter 
amazement  it  reached  out  two  skeleton  arms  and 
clutched  me  with  a  grasp  against  which  I  strug- 
gled in  vain.  Then  a  skull  stretched  itself  over  my 
shoulder  and  grinned  with  ghastly  familiarity  close 
to  my  face. 

Rivarol  came  to  my  aid  with  many  apologies. 
He  touched  a  spring  somewhere  and  the  Petty  Cash 
Adjuster  relaxed  its  horrid  hold.  I  placed  myself 
gingerly  in  a  plain  cane-bottomed  rocking-chair, 
which  Rivarol  assured  me  was  a  safe  location. 

"  That  seat,"  he  said,  "is  an  arrangement  upon 
which  I  much  felicitate  myself.  I  made  it  at 


176  THE    TACHYPOMP. 

Heidelberg.  It  has  saved  me  a  vast  deal  of  small 
annoyance.  I  consign  to  its  embraces  the  friends 
who  bore,  and  the  visitors  who  exasperate,  me. 
But  it  is  never  so  useful  as  when  terrifying  some 
tradesman  with  an  insignificant  account.  Hence 
the  pet  name  which  I  have  facetiously  given  it. 
They  are  invariably  too  glad  to  purchase  release  at 
the  price  of  a  bill  receipted.  Do  you  well  appre- 
hend the  idea?" 

While  the  Alsatian  diluted  his  glass  of  Aqua 
fortiS)  shook  into  it  an  infusion  of  bitters,  and  toss- 
ed off  the  bumper  with  apparent  relish,  I  had  time 
to  look  around  the  strange  apartment. 

The  four  corners  of  the  room  were  occupied  re- 
spectively by  a  turning-lathe,  a  Rhumkorff  Coil, 
a  small  steam-engine  and  an  orrery  in  stately 
motion.  Tables,  shelves,  chairs  and  floor  support- 
ed an  odd  aggregation  of  tools,  retorts,  chemicals, 
gas-receivers,  philosophical  instruments,  boots, 
flasks,  paper-collar  boxes,  books  diminutive  and 
books  of  preposterous  size.  There  were  plaster 
busts  of  Aristotle,  Archimedes,  and  Comte,  while 
a  great  drowsy  owl  was  blinking  away,  perched  on 
the  benign  brow  of  Martin  Farquhar  Tupper. 
"  He  always  roosts  there  when  he  proposes  to 
slumber,"  explained  my  tutor.  ;<  You  are  a  bird 
of  no  ordinary  mind.  Schlafen  Sic  wohl." 

Through  a  closet  door,  half  open,  I  could  see  a 
human-like  form  covered  with  a  sheet.  Rivarol 
caught  my  glance. 

"  That,"  said  he,  "  will  be  my  masterpiece.     It 


THE    TACHYPOMP.  177 

is  a  Microcosm,  an  Android,  as  yet  only  partially 
complete.  And  why  not  ?  Albertus  Magnus  con- 
structed an  image  perfect  to  talk  metaphysics  and 
confute  the  schools.  So  did  Sylvester  II.;  so  did 
Robertus  Greathead.  Roger  Bacon  made  a  brazen 
head  that  held  discourses.  But  the  first  named  of 
these  came  to  destruction.  Thomas  Aquinas  got 
wrathful  at  some  of  its  syllogisms  and  smashed  its 
head.  The  idea  is  reasonable  enough.  Mental  ac- 
tion will  yet  be  reduced  to  laws  as  definite  as  those 
which  govern  the  physical.  Why  should  not  I  ac- 
complish a  manikin  which  shall  preach  as  original 
discourses  as  the  Rev.  Dr.  Allchin,  or  talk  poetry 
as  mechanically  as  Paul  Anapest  ?  My  Android 
can  already  work  problems  in  vulgar  fractions  and 
compose  sonnets.  I  hope  to  teach  it  the  Positive 
Philosophy." 

Out  of  the  bewildering  confusion  of  his  effects 
Rivarol  produced  two  pipes  and  filled  them.  He 
handed  one  to  me. 

11  And  here,"  he  said,  "  I  live  and  am  tolerably 
comfortable.  When  my  coat  wears  out  at  the 
elbows  I  seek  the  tailor  and  am  measured  for 
another.  When  I  am  hungry  I  promenade  myself 
to  the  butcher's  and  bring  home  a  pound  or  so  of 
steak,  which  I  cook  very  nicely  in  three  seconds  by 
this  oxy-hydrogen  flame.  Thirsty,  perhaps,  I  send 
for  a  carboy  of  Aquafortis.  But  I  have  it  charged, 
all  charged.  My  spirit  is  above  any  small  pecun- 
iary transaction.  I  loathe  your  dirty  greenbacks, 
and  never  handle  what  they  call  scrip." 


178  THE    TACHYPOMP. 

"But  are  you  never  pestered  with  bills?"  I 
asked.  "  Don't  the  creditors  worry  your  life  out  ?" 

"  Creditors  !"  gasped  Rivarol.  "  I  have  learn- 
ed no  such  word  in  your  very  admirable  language. 
He  who  will  allow  his  soul  to  be  vexed  by  cred- 
itors is  a  relic  of  an  imperfect  civilization.  Of 
what  use  is  science  if  it  cannot  avail  a  man  who 
has  accounts  current  ?  Listen.  The  moment  you 
or  any  one  else  enters  the  outside  door  this  little 
electric  bell  sounds  me  warning.  Every  successive 
step  on  Mrs.  Grimier' s  staircase  is  a  spy  and  in- 
former vigilant  for  my  benefit.  The  first  step  is 
trod  upon.  That  trusty  first  step  immediately  tele- 
graphs your  weight.  Nothing  could  be  simpler. 
It  is  exactly  like  any  platform  scale.  The  weight 
is  registered  up  here  upon  this  dial.  The  second 
step  records  the  size  of  my  visitor's  feet.  The 
third  his  height,  the  fourth  his  complexion,  and  so 
on.  By  the  time  he  reaches  the  top  of  the  first 
flight  I  have  a  pretty  accurate  description  of  him 
right  here  at  my  elbow,  and  quite  a  margin  of  time 
for  deliberation  and  action.  Do  you  follow  me  ? 
It  is  plain  enough.  Only  the  A  B  C  of  my  science/ ' 

"  I  see  all  that,"  I  said,  "  but  I  don't  see  how  it 
helps  you  any.  The  knowledge  that  a  creditor  is 
coming  won't  pay  his  bill.  You  can't  escape  unless 
you  jump  out  of  the  window." 

Rivarol  laughed  softly.  "  I  will  tell  you.  You 
shall  see  what  becomes  of  any  poor  devil  who  goes 
to  demand  money  of  me — of  a  man  of  science.  Ha  ! 
ha  !  It  pleases  me.  I  was  seven  weeks  perfecting 


THE    TACHYPOMP.  179 

my  Dun  Suppressor.  Did  you  know" — he  whis- 
pered exultingly — "  did  you  know  that  there  is  a 
hole  through  the  earth's  centre  ?  Physicists  have 
long  suspected  it  ;  I  was  the  first  to  find  it.  You 
have  read  how  Rhuyghens,  the  Dutch  navigator, 
discovered  in  Kerguellen's  Land  an  abysmal  pit 
which  fourteen  hundred  fathoms  of  plumb-line  fail- 
ed to  sound.  Herr  Tom,  that  hole  has  no  bottom  ! 
It  runs  from  one  surface  of  the  earth  to  the  anti- 
podal surface.  It  is  diametric.  But  where  is  the 
antipodal  spot  ?  You  stand  upon  it.  I  learned 
this  by  the  merest  chance.  I  was  deep-digging  in 
Mrs.  Grimier' s  cellar,  to  bury  a  poor  cat  I  had  sac- 
rificed in  a  galvanic  experiment,  when  the  earth 
under  my  spade  crumbled,  caved  in,  and  wonder- 
stricken  I  stood  upon  the  brink  of  a  yawning  shaft. 
I  dropped  a  coal-hod  in.  It  went  down,  down 
down,  bounding  and  rebounding.  In  two  hours 
and  a  quarter  that  coal-hod  came  up  again.  I 
caught  it  and  restored  it  to  the  angry  Grimier. 
Just  think  a  minute.  The  coal-hod  went  down, 
faster  and  faster,  till  it  reached  the  centre  of  the 
earth.  There  it  would  stop,  were  it  not  for  acquir- 
ed momentum.  Beyond  the  centre  its  journey  was 
relatively  upward,  toward  the  opposite  surface  of 
the  globe.  So,  losing  velocity,  it  went  slower  and 
slower  till  it  reached  that  surface.  Here  it  came  to 
rest  for  a  second  and  then  fell  back  again,  eight 
thousand  odd  miles,  into  my  hands.  Had  I  not 
interfered  with  it,  it  would  have  repeated  its  jour- 
ney, time  after  time,  each  trip  of  shorter  extent, 


i8o  THE    TACHYPOMP. 

like  the  diminishing  oscillations  of  a  pendulum, 
till  it  finally  came  to  eternal  rest  at  the  centre  of 
the  sphere.  I  am  not  slow  to  give  a  practical  ap- 
plication to  any  such  grand  discovery.  My  Dun 
Suppressor  was  born  of  it.  A  trap,  just  outside 
my  chamber  door  :  a  spring  in  here  :  a  creditor  on 
the  trap  : — need  I  say  more  ?' 

"  But  isn't  it  a  trifle  inhuman  ?"  I  mildly  sug- 
gested. "  Plunging  an  unhappy  being  into  a  per- 
petual journey  to  and  from  Kerguellen's  Land, 
without  a  moment's  warning." 

"  I  give  them  a  chance.  When  they  come  up 
the  first  time  I  wait  at  the  mouth  of  the  shaft  with 
a  rope  in  hand.  If  they  are  reasonable  and  will 
come  to  terms,  I  fling  them  the  line.  If  they  per- 
ish, 'tis  their  own  fault.  Only,"  he  added,  with  a 
melancholy  smile,  "  the  centre  is  getting  so  plug- 
ged up  with  creditors  that  I  am  afraid  there  soon 
will  be  no  choice  whatever  for  'em." 

By  this  time  I  had  conceived  a  high  opinion  of 
my  tutor's  ability.  If  anybody  could  send  me 
waltzing  through  space  at  an  infinite  speed, 
Rivarol  could  do  it.  I  filled  my  pipe  and  told  him 
the  story.  He  heard  with  grave  and  patient  atten- 
tion. Then,  for  full  half  an  hour,  he  whiffed  away 
in  silence.  Finally  he  spoke. 

"  The  ancient  cipher  has  overreached  himself. 
He  has  given  you  a  choice  of  two  problems,  both 
of  which  he  deems  insoluble.  Neither  of  them  is 
insoluble.  The  only  gleam  of  intelligence  Old 
Cotangent  showed  was  when  he  said  that  squaring 


THE    TACHYPOMP.  181 

the  circle  was  too  easy.  He  was  right.  It  would 
have  given  you  your  Liebchen  in  five  minutes.  I 
squared  the  circle  before  I  discarded  pantalets. 
I  will  show  you  the  work — but  it  would  be  a  digres- 
sion, and  you  are  in  no  mood  for  digressions.  Our 
first  chance,  therefore,  lies  in  perpetual  motion. 
Now,  my  good  friend,  I  will  frankly  tell  you  that, 
although  I  have  compassed  this  interesting  prob- 
lem, I  do  not  choose  to  use  it  in  your  behalf.  I 
too,  Herr  Tom,  have  a  heart.  The  loveliest  of  her 
sex  frowns  upon  me.  Her  somewhat  mature 
charms  are  not  for  Jean  Marie  Rivarol.  She  has 
cruelly  said  that  her  years  demand  of  me  filial 
rather  than  connubial  regard.  Is  love  a  matter  of 
years  or  of  eternity  ?  This  question  did  I  put  to 
the  cold,  yet  lovely  Jocasta." 

"Jocasta  Surd  !"  I  remarked  in  surprise,  "  Ab- 
scissa's aunt !" 

"The  same,"  he  said,  sadly.  "I  will  not  at- 
tempt to  conceal  that  upon  the  maiden  Jocasta  my 
maiden  heart  has  been  bestowed.  Give  me  your 
hand,  my  nephew  in  affliction  as  in  affection  !" 

Rivarol  dashed  away  a  not  discreditable  tear, 
and  resumed  : 

"  My  only  hope  lies  in  this  discovery  of  perpet- 
ual motion.  It  will  give  me  the  fame,  the  wealth. 
Can  Jocasta  refuse  these  ?  If  she  can,  there  is  only 
the  trap-door  and— Kerguellen's  Land  !" 

I  bashfully  asked  to  see  the  perpetual-motion 
machine.  My  uncle  in  affliction  shook  his  head. 

"At   another   time,"    he  said.       "Suffice   it  at 


1 82  THE    TACHYPOMP. 

present  to  say,  that  it  is  something  upon  the  prin- 
ciple of  a  woman's  tongue.  But  you  see  now  why 
we  must  turn  in  your  case  to  the  alternative  condi- 
tion— infinite  speed.  There  are  several  ways  in 
which  this  may  be  accomplished,  theoretically.  By 
the  lever,  for  instance.  Imagine  a  lever  with  a  very 
long  and  a  very  short  arm.  Apply  power  to  the 
shorter  arm  which  will  move  it  with  great  velocity. 
The  end  of  the  long  arm  will  move  much  faster. 
Now  keep  shortening  the  short  arm  and  lengthen- 
ing the  long  one,  and  as  you  approach  infinity  in 
their  difference  of  length,  you  approach  infinity  in 
the  speed  of  the  long  arm.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
demonstrate  this  practically  to  the  Professor.  We 
must  seek  another  solution.  Jean  Marie  will  medi- 
tate. Come  to  me  in  a  fortnight.  Good-night. 
But  stop  !  Have  you  the  money — das  Geld?" 

"  Much  more  than  I  need." 

"  Good  !  Let  us  strike  hands.  Gold  and 
Knowledge  ;  Science  and  Love.  What  may  not 
such  a  partnership  achieve  ?  We  go  to  conquer 
thee,  Abscissa.  Vorwdrts  /" 

When,  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  I  sought  Riva- 
rol's  chamber,  I  passed  with  some  little  trepida- 
tion over  the  terminus  of  the  Air  Line  to  Kerguel- 
len's  Land,  and  evaded  the  extended  arms  of  the 
Petty  Cash  Adjuster.  Rivarol  drew  a  mug  of  ale 
for  me,  and  filled  himself  a  retort  of  his  own  pecul- 
iar beverage. 

"  Come,"  he  said  at  length.  "  Let  us  drink  suc- 
cess to  the  TACHYPOMP." 


THE  TACHYPOMP.  183 

"  The  TACHYPOMP  ?" 

"  Yes.  Why  not  ?  Tachu,  quickly,  and  pempo, 
pepompa,  to  send.  May  it  send  you  quickly  to  your 
wedding-day.  Abscissa  is  yours.  It  is  done. 
When  shall  we  start  for  the  prairies  ?" 

"  Where  is  it  f  I  asked,  looking  in  vain  around 
the  room  for  any  contrivance  which  might  seem 
calculated  to  advance  matrimonial  prospects. 

"  It  is  here,"  and  he  gave  his  forehead  a  signifi- 
cant tap.  Then  he  held  forth  didactically. 

'  There  is  force  enough  in  existence  to  yield  us 
a  speed  of  sixty  miles  a  minute,  or  even  more. 
All  we  need  is  the  knowledge  how  to  combine  and 
apply  it.  The  wise  man  will  not  attempt  to  make 
some  great  force  yield  some  great  speed.  He  will 
keep  adding  the  little  force  to  the  little  force, 
making  each  little  force  yield  its  little  speed,  until 
an  aggregate  of  little  forces  shall  be  a  great  force, 
yielding  an  aggregate  of  little  speeds,  a  great 
speed.  The  difficulty  is  not  in  aggregating  the 
forces  ;  it  lies  in  the  corresponding  aggregation  of 
the  speeds.  One  musket-ball  will  go,  say  a  mile. 
It  is  not  hard  to  increase  the  force  of  muskets  to  a 
thousand,  yet  the  thousand  musket-balls  will  go  no 
farther,  and  no  faster,  than  the  one.  You  see, 
then,  where  our  trouble  lies.  We  cannot  readily 
add  speed  to  speed,  as  we  add  force  to  force.  My 
discovery  is  simply  the  utilization  of  a  principle 
which  extorts  an  increment  of  speed  from  each  in- 
crement of  power.  But  this  is  the  metaphysics  of 
physics.  Let  us  be  practical  or  nothing. 


1 86  THE    TACHYPOMP. 

B  also.  We  have  so  combined  the  speeds  of  those 
two  engines  as  to  accomplish  two  miles  in  one 
minute.  Is  this  all  we  can  do  ?  Prepare  to  exer- 
cise your  imagination." 

I  lit  my  pipe. 

"  Still  two  miles  of  straight  track,  between  A 
and  B.  On  the  track  a  long  platform  car,  reach- 
ing from  A  to  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of 
B.  We  will  now  discard  ordinary  locomotives  and 
adopt  as  our  motive  power  a  series  of  compact 
magnetic  engines,  distributed  underneath  the  plat- 
form car,  all  along  its  length." 

"  I  don't  understand  those  magnetic  engines." 

"  Well,  each  of  them  consists  of  a  great  iron 
horseshoe,  rendered  alternately  a  magnet  and  not 
a  magnet  by  an  intermittent  current  of  electricity 
from  a  battery,  this  current  in  its  turn  regulated  by 
clock-work.  When  the  horseshoe  is  in  the  circuit, 
it  is  a  magnet,  and  it  pulls  its  clapper  toward  it 
with  enormous  power.  When  it  is  out  of  the  cir- 
cuit, the  next  second,  it  is  not  a  magnet,  and  it  lets 
the  clapper  go.  The  clapper,  oscillating  to  and 
fro,  imparts  a  rotatory  motion  to  a  fly-wheel, 
which  transmits  it  to  the  drivers  on  the  rails. 
Such  are  our  motors.  They  are  no  novelty,  for 
trial  has  proved  them  practicable. 

"  With  a  magnetic  engine  for  every  truck  of 
wheels,  we  can  reasonably  expect  to  move  our  im- 
mense car,  and  to  drive  it  along  at  a  speed,  say, 
of  a  mile  a  minute. 

"  The  forward  end,   having  but  a  quarter  of  a 


THE    TACHYPOMP.  187 

mile  to  go,  will  reach  B  in  fifteen  seconds.  We 
will  call  this  platform  car  number  i.  On  top  of 
number  i  are  laid  rails  on  which  another  platform 
car,  number  2,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  shorter  than 
number  i,  is  moved  in  precisely  the  same  way. 
Number  2,  in  its  turn,  is  surmounted  by  number  3, 
moving  independently  of  the  tiers  beneath,  and  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  shorter  than  number  2.  Number 
2  is  a  mile  and  a  half  long  ;  number  3  a  mile  and  a 
quarter.  Above,  on  successive  levels,  are  number 
4,  a  mile  long  ;  number  5,  three  quarters  of  a  mile  ; 
number  6,  half  a  mile  ;  number  7,  a  quarter  of  a 
mile,  and  number  8,  a  short  passenger  car,  on  top 
of  all. 

"  Each  car  moves  upon  the  car  beneath  it,  inde- 
pendently of  all  the  others,  at  the  rate  of  a  mile  a 
minute.  Each  car  has  its  own  magnetic  engines. 
Well,  the  train  being  drawn  up  with  the  latter  end 
of  each  car  resting  against  a  lofty  bumping-post  at 
A,  Tom  Furnace,  the  gentlemanly  conductor,  and 
Jean  Marie  Rivarol,  engineer,  mount  by  a  long  lad- 
der to  the  exalted  number  8.  The  complicated 
mechanism  is  set  in  motion.  What  happens  ? 

"  Number  8  runs  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  fifteen 
seconds  and  reaches  the  end  of  number  7.  Mean- 
while number  7  has  run  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  the 
same  time  and  reached  the  end  of  number  6  ;  num- 
ber 6,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  fifteen  seconds,  and 
reached  the  end  of  number  5  ;  number  5,  the  end 
of  number  4  ;  number  4,  of  number  3  ;  number  3, 
of  number  2  ;  number  2,  of  number  i.  And  num- 


1 88  THE    TACHYPOMP. 

her  i,  in  fifteen  seconds,  has  gone  its  quarter  of  a 
mile  along  the  ground  track,  and  has  reached  sta- 
tion B.  All  this  has  been  done  in  fifteen  seconds. 
Wherefore,  numbers  i,  2,  3,  4,  5,  6,  7,  and  8  come 
to  rest  against  the  bumping-post  at  B,  at  precisely 
the  same  second.  We,  in  number  8,  reach  B  just 
when  number  i  reaches  it.  In  other  words,  we  ac- 
complish two  miles  in  fifteen  seconds.  Each  of  the 
eight  cars,  moving  at  the  rate  of  a  mile  a  minute, 
has  contributed  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  our  journey, 
and  has  done  its  work  in  fifteen  seconds.  All  the 
eight  did  their  work  at  once,  during  the  same  fif- 
teen seconds.  Consequently  we  have  been  whiz- 
zed through  the  air  at  the  somewhat  startling  speed 
of  seven  and  a  half  seconds  to  the  mile.  This  is 
the  Tachypomp.  Does  it  justify  the  name  ?" 

Although  a  little  bewildered  by  the  complexity  of 
cars,  I  apprehended  the  general  principle  of  the 
machine.  I  made  a  diagram,  and  understood  it 
much  better.  "  You  have  merely  improved  on  the 
idea  of  my  moving  faster  than  the  train  when  I 
was  going  to  the  smoking  car  ?" 

"  Precisely.  So  far  we  have  kept  within  the 
bounds  of  the  practicable.  To  satisfy  the  Profes- 
sor, you  can  theorize  in  something  after  this  fash- 
ion :  If  we  double  the  number  of  cars,  thus  de- 
creasing by  one  half  the  distance  which  each  has  to 
go,  we  shall  attain  twice  the  speed.  Each  of  the 
sixteen  cars  will  have  but  one  eighth  of  a  mile  to 
go.  At  the  uniform  rate  we  have  adopted,  the  two 
miles  can  be  done  in  seven  and  a  half  instead  of 


THE    TACHYPOMP.  189 

fifteen  seconds.  With  thirty-two  cars,  and  a  six- 
teenth of  a  mile,  or  twenty  rods  difference  in  their 
length,  we  arrive  at  the  speed  of  a  mile  in  less  than 
two  seconds  ;  with  sixty-four  cars,  each  travelling 
but  ten  rods,  a  mile  under  the  second.  More  than 
sixty  miles  a  minute  !  If  this  isn't  rapid  enough 
for  the  Professor,  tell  him  to  go  on,  increasing  the 
number  of  his  cars  and  diminishing  the  distance 
each  one  has  to  run.  If  sixty-four  cars  yield  a 
speed  of  a  mile  inside  the  second,  let  him  fancy  a 
Tachypomp  of  six  hundred  and  forty  cars,  and 
amuse  himself  calculating  the  rate  of  car  number 
640.  Just  whisper  to  him  that  when  he  has  an  in- 
finite number  of  cars  with  an  infinitesimal  differ- 
ence in  their  lengths,  he  will  have  obtained  that 
infinite  speed  for  which  he  seems  to  yearn,  Then 
demand  Abscissa." 

I  wrung  my  friend's  hand  in  silent  and  grateful 
admiration.  I  could  say  nothing. 

"  You  have  listened  to  the  man  of  theory,"  he 
said  proudly.  "  You  shall  now  behold  the  practi- 
cal engineer.  We  will  go  to  the  west  of  the  Missis- 
sippi and  find  some  suitably  level  locality.  We 
will  erect  thereon  a  model  Tachypomp.  We  will 
summon  thereunto  the  professor,  his  daughter,  and 
why  not  his  fair  sister  Jocasta,  as  well  ?  We  will 
take  them  a  journey  which  shall  much  astonish  the 
venerable  Surd.  He  shall  place  Abscissa's  digits 
in  yours  and  bless  you  both  with  an  algebraic  for- 
mula. Jocasta  shall  contemplate  with  wonder  the 
genius  of  Rivarol.  But  we  have  much  t,o  do.  We 


190  THE    TACHYPOMP. 

must  ship  to  St.  Joseph  the  vast  amount  of  mate- 
rial to  be  employed  in  the  construction  of  the 
Tachypomp.  We  must  engage  a  small  army  of 
workmen  to  effect  that  construction,  for  we  are  to 
annihilate  time  and  space.  Perhaps  you  had 
better  see  your  bankers." 

I  rushed  impetuously  to  the  door.  There  should 
be  no  delay. 

"  Stop!  stop  !  Um  Gottes  Willen,  stop  !"  shriek- 
ed Rivarol.  "  I  launched  my  butcher  this  morning' 
and  I  haven't  bolted  the — " 

But  it  was  too  late.  I  was  upon  the  trap.  It 
swung  open  with  a  crash,  and  I  was  plunged 
down,  down,  down  !  I  felt  as  if  I  were  falling 
through  illimitable  space.  I  remember  wondering, 
as  I  rushed  through  the  darkness,  whether  I  should 
reach  Kerguellen's  Land  or  stop  at  the  centre.  It 
seemed  an  eternity.  Then  my  course  was  sudden- 
ly and  painfully  arrested. 

I  opened  my  eyes.  Around  me  were  the  walls 
of  Professor  Surd's  study.  Under  me  was  a  hard, 
unyielding  plane  which  I  knew  too  well  was  Pro- 
fessor Surd's  study  floor.  Behind  me  was  the 
black,  slippery,  hair-cloth  chair  which  had  belched 
me  forth,  much  as  the  whale  served  Jonah.  In 
front  of  me  stood  Professor  Surd  himself,  looking 
down  with  a  not  unpleasant  smile. 

"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Furnace.  Let  me  help 
you  up.  You  look  tired,  sir.  No  wonder  you  fell 
asleep  when  I  kept  you  so  long  waiting.  Shall  I 
get  you  a  glass  of  wine  ?  No  ?  By  the  way,  since 


THE    TACHYPOMP.  191 

receiving  your  letter  I  find  that  you  are  a  son  of  my 
old  friend,  Judge  Furnace.  I  have  made  inquiries, 
and  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not  make  Ab- 
scissa a  good  husband." 

Still   I  can  see  no  reason  why  the  Tachypomp 
should  not  have  succeeded.     Can  you  ? 


Stories  by  American  Authors. 

VI. 


%*  The  Stories  in  this  volume  are  pro- 
tected by  copyright,  and  are  printed  here 
by  the  authority  of  the  authors  or  their 
representatives. 


Stories  by 
American  Authors 


VI. 


THE   VILLAGE    CONVICT. 

By  C.  H.  WHITE. 

THE    DENVER     EXPRESS. 

By  A.  A.  HAYES. 

THE     MISFORTUNES    OF     BRO'  THOMAS 
WHEATLEY. 

By  LINA  REDWOOD   FAIRFAX. 

THE    HEARTBREAK     CAMEO. 

By  L.  W.  CHAMPNEY. 

MISS     EUNICE'S     GLOVE. 

By  ALBERT  WEBSTER. 

BROTHER     SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP. 

By  HAROLD  FREDERIC. 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1891 


COPYRIGHT,  1884,  BY 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


THE  VILLAGE  CONVICT. 

BY  C.  H.  WHITE. 


'f  EPh's  got  back  ;  they  sav his 

sentence  run  out  yisterday." 

The  speaker,  John  Doane,  was  a  sunburnt  fisher- 
man, one  of  a  circle  of  well-salted  individuals  who 
sat,  some  on  chairs,  some  on  boxes  and  barrels, 
around  the  stove  in  a  country  store. 

"Yes,"  said  Captain  Seth,  a  middle-aged  little 
man  with  earrings  ;  "he  come  on  the  stage  to- 
noon.  Wouldn't  hardly  speak  a  word,  Jim  says. 
Looked  kind  o'  sot  and  sober." 

"  Wall,"  said  the  first  speaker,  "  I  only  hope  he 
won't  go  to  burnin'  us  out  of  house  and  home,  same 
as  he  burnt  up  Eliphalet's  barn.  I  was  ruther  in 
hopes  he'd  'a'  made  off  West.  Seems  to  me  I 
should,  in  his  place,  hevin'  ben  in  State's-prison." 

"  Now,  I  allers  hed  quite  a  parcel  o'  sympathy 
for  Eph,"  said  a  short,  thickset  coasting  captain, 

«%  ScribneSs Monthly,  August,  1881. 


6  THE    VILLAGE   CONVICT. 

who  sat  tilted  back  in  a  three-legged  chair,  smoking 
lazily.  "  You  see,  he  wa'n't  but  about  twenty-one 
or  two  then,  and  he  was  allus  a  mighty  high-strung 
boy  ;  and  then  Eliphalet  did  act  putty  ha'sh> 
foreclosin'  on  Eph's  mother,  and  turnin'  her  out 
o'  the  farm,  in  winter,  when  everybody  knew  she 
could  ha'  pulled  through  by  waitin'.  Eph  sot 
great  store  by  the  old  lady,  and  I  expect  he  was 
putty  mad  with  Eliphalet  that  night." 

"1  allers,"  said  Doane,  "approved  o'  his  plan 
o'  leadin'  out  all  the  critters,  'fore  he  touched  off 
the  barn.  'Taint  everybody  't  would  hev  taken 
pains  to  do  that.  But  all  the  same,  I  tell  Sarai't 
I  feel  kind  o'  skittish,  nights,  to  hev  to  turn  in, 
feelin'  't  there's  a  convict  in  the  place." 

"  I  hain't  got  no  barn  to  burn,"  said  Captain 
Seth  ;  "  but  if  he  allots  my  henhouse  to  the  flames, 
I  hope  he'll  lead  out  the  hens,  and  hitch  'em  to 
the  apple  trees,  same's  he  did  Eliphalet' s  critters. 
Think  he  ought  to  deal  ekally  by  all." 

A  mild  general  chuckle  greeted  this  sally,  cheered 
by  which  the  speaker  added  : 

"  Thought  some  o'  takin'  out  a  policy  o'  insur- 
ance on  my  cockerel." 

11  Trade's  lookin'  up,  William,"  said  Captain 
Seth  to  the  storekeeper,  as  some  one  was  heard  to 
kick  the  snow  off  his  boots  on  the  door-step. 
"  Somebody's  found  he's  got  to  hev  a  shoestring 
'fore  mornin'." 

The  door  opened,  and  closed  behind  a  strongly 
made  fellow  of  twenty-six  or  seven,  of  homely 


THE    VILLAGE   CONVICT.  ^ 

features,  with  black  hair,  in  clothes  which  he  had 
outgrown.  It  was  a  bitter  night,  but  he  had  no 
coat  over  his  flannel  jacket.  He  walked  straight 
down  the  store,  between  the  dry-goods  counters, 
to  the  snug  corner  at  the  rear,  where  the  knot  of 
talkers  sat  ;  nodded,  without  a  smile,  to  each  of 
them,  and  then  asked  the  storekeeper  for  some 
simple  articles  of  food,  which  he  wished  to  buy. 
It  was  Eph. 

While  the  purchases  were  being  put  up,  an  awk- 
ward silence  prevailed,  which  the  oil-suits  hanging 
on  the  walls,  broadly  displaying  their  arms  and 
legs,  seemed  to  mock,  in  dumb  show. 

Nothing  was  changed,  to  Eph's  eyes,  as  he 
looked  about.  Even  the  handbill  of  familiar 
pattern  : 

"  STANDING  WOOD  FOR  SALE. 
APPLY  TO  J.   CARTER,  ADMIN' R," 

seemed  to  have  always  been  there. 

The  village  parliament  remained  spellbound. 
Mr.  Adams  tied  up  the  purchases  and  mildly  in- 
quired : 

"Shall  I  charge  this?" 

Not  that  he  was  anxious  to  open  an  account,  but 
that  he  would  probably  have  gone  to  the  length  of 
selling  Eph  a  barrel  of  molasses  "  on  tick"  rather 
than  run  any  risk  of  offending  so  formidable  a 
character. 

"  No,"  said  Eph  ;  "  I  will  pay  for  the  things." 

And  having  put  the  packages  into  a  canvas  bag, 


8  THE    VILLAGE  CONVICT. 

and  selected  some  fish-hooks  and  lines  from  the 
show-case,  where  they  lay  environed  by  jack- 
knives,  jewsharps,  and  gum-drops — dear  to  the 
eyes  of  his  childhood — he  paid  what  was  due,  said 
"Good-night,  William,"  to  the  storekeeper,  and 
walked  steadily  out  into  the  night. 

"  Wall,"  said  the  skipper,  "  I  am  surprised  !  I 
strove  to  think  o'  suthin'  to  say,  all  the  time  he 
was  here,  but  I  swow  I  couldn't  think  o'  nothin'. 
I  couldn't  ask  him  if  it  seemed  good  to  git  home, 
nor  how  the  thermometer  had  varied  in  different 
parts  o'  the  town  where  he'd  been.  Everything 
seemed  to  fetch  right  up  standin'  to  the  State's- 
prison." 

"  I  was  just  goin'  to  say,  *  How'd  ye  leave  every- 
body ?'  "  said  Doane  ;  "  but  that  kind  o'  seemed 
to  bring  up  them  he'd  left.  I  felt  real  bad, 
though,  to  hev  the  feller  go  off  'thout  none  on  us 
speakin'  to  him.  He's  got  a  hard  furrer  to  plough  ; 
and  yet  I  don't  s'pose  there's  much  harm  in  him, 
'f  Eliphalet  only  keeps  quiet." 

"  Eliphalet  !"  said  a  young  sailor,  contemptu- 
ously. "  No  fear  o'  him  !  They  say  he's  so  sea' t  of 
Eph  he  hain't  hardly  swallowed  nothin'  for  a  week." 

"  But  where  will  he  live  ?"  asked  a  short,  curly- 
haired  young  man,  whom  Eph  had  seemed  not  to 
recognize.  It  was  the  new  doctor,  who,  after 
having  made  his  way  through  college  and  "  the 
great  medical  school  in  Boston,"  had,  two  years 
before,  settled  in  this  village. 

"  I    believe,"    said    Mr.    Adams,    rubbing    his 


THE    VILLAGE   CONVICT.  9 

hands,  "  that  he  wrote  to  Joshua  Carr  last  winter, 
when  his  mother  died,  not  to  let  the  little  place 
she  left,  on  the  Salt  Hay  Road,  and  I  understand 
that  he  is  going  to  make  his  home  there.  It  is  an 
old  house,  you  know,  and  not  worth  much,  but  it 
is  weather-tight,  I  should  say." 

"  Speakin'  of  his  writin'  to  Joshua,"  said  Doane, 
"  I  have  heard  such  a  sound  as  that  he  used  to 
shine  up  to  Joshua's  Susan,  years  back.  But  that's 
all  ended  now.  You  won't  catch  Susan  marryin' 
no  jailbirds." 

'*  But  how  will  he  live  ?"  said  the  doctor. 
"  Will  anybody  give  him  work  ?" 

"  Let  him  alone  for  livin',"  said  Doane.  "  He 
can  ketch  more  fish  than  any  other  two  men  in  the 
place — allers  seemed  to  kind  o'  hev  a  knack  o' 
whistlin'  'em  right  into  the  boat.  And  then  Nel- 
son Briggs,  that  settled  up  his  mother's  estate, 
allows  he's  got  over  a  hundred  and  ten  dollars  for 
him,  after  payin'  debts  and  all  probate  expenses, 
and  that  and  the  place  is  all  he  needs  to  start  on." 

"  I  will  go  to  see  him,"  said  the  doctor  to  him- 
self, as  he  went  out  upon  the  requisition  of  a  grave 
man  in  a  red  tippet,  who  had  just  come  for  him. 
"  He  doesn't  look  so  very  dangerous,  and  I  think 
he  can  be  tamed.  I  remember  that  his  mother  told 
me  about  him." 

Late  that  night,  returning  from  his  seven  miles' 
drive,  as  he  left  the  causeway,  built  across  a  wide 
stretch  of  salt-marsh,  crossed  the  rattling  plank 
bridge  and  ascended  the  hill,  he  saw  a  light  in  the 


16  TttE    VILLAGE   CONVICT. 

cottage  Window,  where  he  had  often  been  to  attend 
Aunt  Lois.  "  I  will  stop  now,"  said  he.  And, 
tying  his  horse  to  the  front  fence,  he  went  toward 
the  kitchen  door.  As  he  passed  the  window,  he 
glanced  in.  A  lamp  was  burning  on  the  table. 
On  a  settle,  lying  upon  his  face,  was  stretched  the 
convict,  his  arms  beneath  his  head.  The  canvas 
bag  lay  on  the  floor  beside  him.  "  I  will  not  dis- 
turb him  now,"  said  the  doctor. 

A  few  days  later  Dr.  Burt  was  driving  in  his 
sleigh  with  his  wife  along  the  Salt  Hay  Road.  It 
was  a  clear,  crisp  winter  forenoon.  As  they  neared 
Eph's  house,  he  said  : 

"  Mary,  suppose  I  lay  siege  to  the  fort  this  morn- 
ing. I  see  a  curl  of  smoke  rising  from  the  little 
shop  in  the  barn.  He  must  be  making  himself  a 
jimmy  or  a  dark-lantern  to  break  into  our  vegetable 
cellar  with." 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  I  think  it  would  be  a  good 
plan  ;  only,  you  know,  you  must  be  very,  very 
careful  not  to  hint,  even  in  the  faintest  way,  at  his 
imprisonment.  You  mustn't  so  much  as  suspect 
that  he  has  ever  been  away  from  the  place.  People 
hardly  dare  to  speak  to  him,  for  fear  he  will  see 
some  reference  to  his  having  been  in  prison,  and 
get  angry." 

"  You  shall  see  my  sly  tact,"  said  her  husband, 
laughing.  "  I  will  be  as  innocent  as  a  lamb.  I 
will  ask  him  why  I  have  not  seen  him  at  the  Sab- 
bath-school this  winter." 


THE    VILLAGE   CONVICT.  il 

"  You  may  make  fun,"  said  she,  "  but  you  will 
end  by  taking  my  advice,  all  the  same.  Now,  do 
be  careful  what  you  say." 

"  I  will,"  he  replied.  "  I  will  compose  my 
remarks  carefully  upon  the  back  of  an  envelope  and 
read  them  to  him,  so  as  to  be  absolutely  sure.  I 
will  leave  on  his  mind  an  impression  that  I  have 
been  in  prison,  and  that  he  was  the  judge  that  tried 
me." 

He  drove  in  at  the  open  gate,  hitched  his  horse 
in  a  warm  corner  by  the  kitchen  door,  and  then 
stopped  for  a  moment  to  enjoy  the  view.  The  sit- 
uation of  the  little  house,  half  a  mile  from  any 
other,  was  beautiful  in  summer,  but  it  was  bleak 
enough  in  winter.  In  the  small  front  dooryard 
stood  three  lofty,  wind-blown  poplars,  all  heading 
away  from  the  sea,  and  between  them  you  could 
look  down  the  bay  or  across  the  salt-marshes, 
while  in  the  opposite  direction  were  to  be  seen  the 
roofs  and  the  glittering  spires  of  the  village. 

"  It  is  social  for  him  here,  to  say  the  least,"  said 
the  doctor,  as  he  turned  and  walked  alone  to  the 
shop.  He  opened  the  door  and  went  in.  It  was  a 
long,  low  lean-to,  such  as  farmers  often  furnish  for 
domestic  work,  with  a  carpenter's  bench,  a  grind- 
stone, and  a  few  simple  tools.  It  was  lighted  by 
three  square  windows  above  the  bench.  An  air- 
tight stove,  projecting  its  funnel  through  a  hole  in 
one  of  the  panes,  gave  out  a  cheerfuf  crackling. 

Eph,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
was  standing,  his  back  against  the  bench,  survey- 


12  THE    VILLAGE   CONVICT. 

ing,  with  something  of  a  mechanic's  eye,  the  frame 
of  a  boat  which  was  set  up  on  the  floor. 

He  looked  up  and  colored  slightly.  The  doctor 
took  out  a  cigarette,  lit  it,  sat  down  on  the  bench, 
and  smoked,  clasping  one  knee  in  his  hands  and 
eying  the  boat. 

"  Centre-board  ?"  he  asked,  at  length. 

"Yes,"  saidEph. 

41  Cat- rig?" 

"Yes." 

11  Going  fishing?" 

"  Yes." 

"Alone?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  was  brought  up  to  sail  a  boat,"  said  the 
doctor,  "and  I  often  go  fishing  in  summer,  when 
I  get  a  chance.  I  shall  want  to  try  your  boat  some 
time." 

No  reply. 

"  The  timbers  are  not  seasoned,  are  they  ?  They 
look  like  pitch-pine,  just  out  of  the  woods.  Won't 
they  warp  ?' ' 

"  No.  Pitch-pine  goes  right  in,  green.  I  s'pose 
the  pitch  keeps  it,  if  it's  out  of  the  sun." 

"  Where  did  you  cut  it  ?" 

Eph  colored  a  little. 

"In  my  back  lot." 

The  doctor  smoked  on  calmly,  and  studied  the 
boat. 

"  I  don't  know  you,"  said  Eph,  relaxing  a  little. 

"Good  reason,"   said  the  doctor.     "I've  only 


THE    VILLAGE    CONVICT.  13 

been  here  two  years  ;"  and  after  a  moment's  pause, 
he  added  :  "  I  am  the  doctor  here,  now.  You've 
heard  of  my  father,  Dr.  Burt,  of  Broad  River  ?" 

Eph  nodded  assent  ;  everybody  knew  him,  all 
through  the  country  ; — a  fatherly  old  man,  who 
rode  on  long  journeys  at  everybody's  call,  and 
never  sent  in  his  bills. 

The  visitor  had  a  standing  with  Eph  at  once. 

"  Doctors  never  pick  at  folks,"  he  said  to  him- 
self— "  at  any  rate,  not  old  Dr.  Burt's  son." 

"  I  used  to  come  here  to  see  your  mother,"  said 
the  doctor,  "  when  she  was  sick.  She  used  to  talk 
a  great  deal  about  you,  and  said  she  wanted  me  to 
get  acquainted  with  you,  when  your  time  was  out." 

Eph  started,  but  said  nothing. 

"  She  was  a  good  woman,  Aunt  Lois,"  added 
the  doctor  ;  "  one  of  the  best  women  I  ever  saw." 

"  I  don't  want  anybody  to  bother  himself  on  my 
account,"  said  Eph.  "  I  ask  no  favors." 

"You  will  have  to  take  favors,  though,"  said 
the  doctor,  "  before  the  winter  is  over.  You  will 
be  careless  and  get  sick  ;  you  have  been  living  for 
a  long  time  entirely  in-doors,  with  regular  hours 
and  work  and  food.  Now  you  are  going  to  live 
out-of-doors,  and  get  your  own  meals,  irregularly. 
You  didn't  have  on  a  thick  coat  the  other  night, 
when  I  saw  you  at  the  store." 

"  I  haven't  got  any  that's  large  enough  for  me," 
said  Eph,  a  little  less  harshly,  "  and  I've  got  to 
keep  my  money  for  other  things." 

"  Then  look  out  and  wear  flannel  shirts  enough," 


14  THE    VILLAGE    CONVICT. 

said  the  doctor,  "  if  you  want  to  be  independent. 
But  before  I  go,  I  want  to  go  into  the  house.  I 
want  my  wife  to  see  Aunt  Lois' s  room,  and  the 
view  from  the  west  window  ;"  and  he  led  the  way 
to  the  sleigh. 

Eph  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  followed  him. 

"  Mary,  this  is  Ephraim  Morse.  We  are  going 
in  to  see  the  Dutch  tiles  I  have  told  you  of." 

She  smiled  as  she  held  out  her  mittened  hand  tc 
Eph,  who  took  it  awkwardly. 

The  square  front  room,  which  had  been 
originally  intended  for  a  keeping-room,  but  had 
been  Aunt  Lois's  bedroom,  looked  out  from  two 
windows  upon  the  road,  and  from  two  upon  the 
rolling,  tumbling  bay,  and  the  shining  sea  beyond. 
A  tall  clock,  with  a  rocking  ship  above  the  face, 
ticked  in  the  corner.  The  painted  floor  with  bright 
rag-mats,  the  little  table  with  a  lacquer  work-box, 
the  stiff  chairs,  and  the  old-fashioned  bedstead,  the 
china  ornaments  upon  the  mantel-piece,  the  picture 
of  "The  Emeline  G.  in  the  Harbor  of  Canton," 
were  just  as  they  had  been  when  the  patient  invalid 
had  lain  there,  looking  from  her  pillow  out  to  sea. 
In  twelve  rude  tiles  set  around  the  open  fireplace, 
the  Hebrews  were  seen  in  twelve  stages  of  their 
escape  from  Egypt.  It  would  appear  from  this 
representation  that  they  had  not  restricted  their 
borrowings  to  the  jewels  of  their  oppressors,  but 
had  taken  for  the  journey  certain  Dutch  clothing 
of  the  fashion  of  the  seventeenth  century.  The 
scenery,  too,  was  much  like  that  about  Leyden. 


THE    VILLAGE    CONVICT.  15 

"I  think,"  said  the  doctor's  wife,  "that  the 
painter  was  just  a  little  absent-minded  when  he  put 

in  that  beer-barrel.  And  a  wharf,  by  the  Red  Sea  !" 
****** 

"  I  wish  you  would  conclude  to  rig  your  boat 
with  a  new  sail,"  said  the  doctor,  as  he  took  up  the 
reins,  at  parting.  "  There  isn't  a  boat  here  that's 
kept  clean,  and  I  should  like  to  hire  yours  once  or 
twice  a  week  in  summer,  if  you  keep  her  as  neat 
as  you  do  your  house.  Come  in  and  see  me  some 
evening,  and  we'll  talk  it  over." 

Eph  built  his  boat,  and,  in  spite  of  his  evident 
dislike  of  visitors,  the  inside  finish  and  the  arrange- 
ments of  the  little  cabin  were  so  ingenious  and  so 
novel  that  everybody  had  to  pay  him  a  visit. 

True  to  his  plan  of  being  independent,  he  built 
in  the  side  of  the  hill,  near  his  barn,  by  a  little 
gravelly  pond,  an  ice-house,  and,  with  the  hardest 
labor,  filled  it,  all  by  himself.  With  this  supply, 
he  would  not  have  to  go  to  the  general  wharf  at 
Sandy  Point  to  sell  his  fish,  with  the  other  men, 
but  could  pack  and  ship  them  himself.  And  he 
could  do  better,  in  this  way,  he  thought,  even  after 
paying  for  teaming  them  to  the  cars. 

The  knowing  ones  laughed  to  see  that,  from  ask- 
ing no  advice,  he  had  miscalculated  and  laid  in 
three  times  as  much  as  he  could  use. 

"  Guess  Eph  cal'lates  ter  fish  with  two  lines  in 
each  hand  and  'nother  in  his  teeth,"  said  Mr. 
Wing.  "  He's  plannin'  out  for  a  great  lay  o'  fish/ 


1 6  THE    VILLAGE    CONVICT. 

The  spring  came  slowly  on,  and  the  first  boat 
that  went  out  that  season  was  Eph's.  That  day 
Was  one  of  unmixed  delight  to  him.  What  a  sense 
of  absolute  freedom,  when  he  was  fairly  out 
beyond  the  lightship,  with  the  fresh  swiftness  of 
the  wind  in  his  face  !  What  an  exquisite  con- 
sciousness of  power  and  control,  as  his  boat  went 
beating  through  the  long  waves  !  Two  or  three 
men  from  another  village  sailed  across  his  wake. 
His  boat  lay  over,  almost  showing  her  keel,  now 
high  out  of  water,  now  settling  between  the  waves, 
while  Eph  stood  easily  in  the  stern  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, steering  with  his  knee,  smoking  a  pipe, 
heaving  and  hauling  his  line  astern  for  bluefish. 

"Takes  it  nat'ral  ag'in,  don't  he?  Stands  as 
easy  as  ef  he  was  loafin'  on  a  wharf,"  said  one  of 
the  observers.  "  Expect  it's  quite  a  treat  to  be 
out.  But  they  do  say  he's  gittin'  everybody's 
good  opinion.  They  looked  for  a  regular  ruffian 
when  he  come  home — cuttin'  nets,  killin'  cats, 
chasin'  hens,  gittin'  drunk.  They  say  Eliphalet 
Wood  didn't  hardly  dare  to  go  ou'  doors  for  a 
month,  'thout  havin'  his  hired  man  along.  But 
he's  turned  out  as  peaceful  as  a  little  gal." 

One  June  day,  as  Eph  was  slitting  bluefish  at 
the  little  pier  which  he  had  built  on  the  bay-shore, 
near  his  rude  ice-house,  two  men  came  up. 

"Hallo,  Eph  !" 

"Hallo." 

"We've  got  about  sick,   tradin'  down  to  the 


THE    VILLAGE    CONVICT.  17 

wharf  ;  we  can't  git  no  fair  show.  About  one  time 
in  three,  they  tell  us  they  don't  want  our  fish,  and 
won't  take  take  'em  unless  we'll  heave  'em  in  for 
next  to  nothin',  and  we  know  there  ain't  no  sense 
in  it.  So  we  just  thought  we'd  slip  down  and  see 
ef  you  wouldn't  take  'em,  seein's  you've  got  ice, 
and  send  'em  up  with  yourn." 

Eph  was  taken  all  aback  with  this  mark  of  confi- 
dence. He  would  decline  the  offer,  sure  that  it 
sprang  from  some  mere  passing  vexation. 

"  I  can't  buy  fish,"  said  he.  "I  have  no  scales 
to  weigh  'em." 

"  Then  send  ourn  in  separate  barrels,"  said  one 
of  them. 

"  But  I  haven't  any  money  to  pay  you,"  he  said. 
"  I  only  get  my  pay  once  a  month." 

"  We'll  git  tick  at  William's,  and  you  can  settle 
'th  us  when  you  git  your  pay." 

"Well,"  said  he,  unable  to  refuse,  "  I'll  take 
'em,  if  you  say  so." 

Before  the  season  was  over,  he  had  still  another 
customer,  and  could  have  had  three  or  four  more, 
if  he  had  had  ice  enough.  He  was  strongly  in- 
clined that  fall  to  build  a  larger  ice-house,  and 
although  he  was  a  little  afraid  of  bringing  ridicule 
upon  himself  in  case  no  fish  should  be  brought  to 
him  the  next  summer,  he  decided  to  do  so,  on  the 
assurance  of  three  or  four  men  that  they  would 
deal  with  him.  Nobody  else  had  such  a  chance, 
he  thought — a  pond  right  by  the  shore. 

One  evening  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door  of 


1 8  THE    VILLAGE    CONVICT. 

Eliphalet  Wood,  the  owner  of  the  burned  barn. 
Eliphalet  went  to  the  door,  but  turned  pale  at  see- 
ing Eph  there. 

"  Oh,  come  in,  come  in  !"  he  panted.  "  Glad  to 
see  you.  Walk  in.  Have  a  chair.  Take  a  seat. 
Sit  down." 

But  he  thought  his  hour  had  come  :  he  was  alone 
in  the  house,  and  there  was  no  neighbor  within 
call. 

Eph  took  out  a  roll  of  bills,  counted  out  eighty 
dollars,  laid  the  money  on  the  table,  and  said, 
quietly  : 

"  Give  me  a  receipt  on  account." 

When  it  was  written  he  walked  out,  leaving 
Eliphalet  stupefied. 

Joshua  Carr  was  at  work,  one  June  afternoon,  by 
the  road-side,  in  front  of  his  low  cottage,  by  an 
enormous  pile  of  poles,  which  he  was  shaving  down 
for  barrel-hoops,  when  Eph  appeared. 

"  Hard  at  it,  Joshua  !"   he  said. 

"  Yes,  yes  !"  said  Joshua,  looking  up  through 
his  steel-bowed  spectacles.  "  Hev  to  work  hard 
to  make  a  livin' — though  I  don't  know's  I  ought 
to  call  it  hard,  neither  ;  and  yet  it  is  rather  hard, 
too  ;  but  then,  on  t'other  hand,  'taint  so  hard  as  a 
good  many  other  things — though  there  is  a  good 
many  jobs  that's  easier.  That's  so  !  That's  so  ! 

"  '  Must  we  be  kerned  to  the  skies 
On  feathery  beds  of  ease  ?  ' 


THE    VILLAGE    CONVICT.  19 

Though  I  don'  know's  I  oughter  quote  a  hymn  on 
such  a  matter  ;  but  then — I  don*  know's  there's 
any  particular  harm  in't,  neither." 

Eph  sat  down  on  a  pile  of  shavings  and  chewed  a 
sliver  ;  and  the  old  man  kept  on  at  his  work. 

"  Hoop-poles  goin'  up  and  hoops  goin'  down," 
he  continued.  "  Cur'us,  ain't  it?  But  then,  I 
don'  know  as  'tis  ;  woods  all  bein'  cut  off — poles 
gittin'  scurcer  ;  hoops  bein'  shoved  in  from  Down 
East.  That  don'  seem  just  right,  now,  does  it — 
but  then,  other  folks  must  make  a  livin' ,  too.  Still, 
I  should  think  they  might  take  up  suthin'  else  ; 
and  yet,  they  might  say  that  about  me.  Under- 
stand, I  don'  mean  to  say  that  they  actually  do 
say  so  ;  I  don'  want  to  run  down  any  man  unless 
I  know — " 

"  I  can't  stand  this,"  said  Eph  to  himself  ;  "  I 
don't  wonder  that  they  always  used  to  put  Joshua 
off  at  the  first  port,  when  he  tried  to  go  coast- 
ing. They  said  he  talked  them  crazy  with 
nothing. 

"  I'll  go  into  the  house  and  see  Aunt  Lyddy," 
he  said,  aloud.  "  I'm  loafing  this  afternoon." 

"All  right!  all  right  !"  said  Joshua.  "  Lyd- 
dy'll  be  glad  to  see  ye— that  is,  as  glad  as  she 
would  be  to  see  anybody,"  he  added,  reaching  out 
for  a  pole.  "  Now,  I  don'  s'pose  that  sounds 
very  well  ;  but  still,  you  know  how  she  is— she 
allus  likes  to  hev  folks  to  talk,  and  then  she's  allus 
sayin'  talkin'  wears  on  her  ;  but  I  ought  not  to  say 
that  to  you,  because  she  allus  likes  to  see  you  —that 


20  THE    VILLAGE   CONVICT. 

is,  as  much  as  she  likes  to  see  anybody — in  fact,  I 
think,  on  the  whole — " 

"Well,  I'll  take  my  chances,"  said  Eph,  laugh- 
ing, and  he  opened  the  gate  and  went  in. 

Joshua's  wife,  whom  everybody  called  Aunt 
Lyddy,  was  oscillating  in  a  rocking-chair  in  the 
kitchen,  and  knitting.  It  was  currently  reported 
that  Joshua's  habit  of  endlessly  retracting  and 
qualifying  every  idea  and  modification  of  an  idea 
which  he  advanced,  so  as  to  commit  himself  to 
nothing,  was  the  effect  of  Aunt  Lyddy's  careful 
revision. 

"  I  s'pose  she  thought  'twas  fun  to  be  talked 
cleef  when  they  was  courtin',"  Captain  Seth  had 
once  sagely  remarked.  "  Prob'ly  it  sounded  then 
like  a  putty  piece  on  a  seraphine  ;  but  I  allers 
cal'lated  she'd  git  her  fill  of  it,  sooner  or  later. 
You  most  gin'lly  git  your  fill  o'  one  tune." 

"How  are  you  this  afternoon,  Aunt  Lyddy?" 
asked  Eph,  walking  in  without  knocking,  and 
sitting  down  near  her. 

"So  as  to  be  able  to  keep  about,"  she  replied. 
"It  is  a  great  mercy  I  ain't  afflicted  with  falling 
out  of  my  chair,  like  Hepsy  Jones,  ain't  it  ?" 

"  I've  brought  you  some  oysters,"  he  said.  "  I 
set  the  basket  down  on  the  door-step.  I  just  took 
them  out  of  the  water  myself  from  the  bed  I 
planted  to  the  west  of  the  water-fence." 

"I  always  heard  you  was  a  great  fisherman," 
said  Aunt  Lyddy,  "  but  I  had  no  idea  you  would 
ever  come  here  and  boast  of  being  able  to  catch 


Tff£    VILLAGE   CONVICT.  11 

oysters.  Poor  things  !  How  could  they  have  got 
away  ?  But  why  don't  you  bring  them  in  ?  They 
won't  be  afraid  of  me,  will  they  ?" 

He  stepped  to  the  door  and  brought  in  a  peck 
basket  full  of  large,  black,  twisted  shells,  and 
with  a  heavy  clasp-knife  proceeded  to  open  one, 
and  took  out  a  great  oyster,  which  he  held  up  on 
the  point  of  the  blade. 

"  Try  it,"  he  said  ;  and  then  Aunt  Lyddy,  after 
she  had  swallowed  it,  laughed  to  think  what  a 
tableau  they  had  made — a  man  who  had  been  in 
the  State-prison  standing  over  her  with  a  great 
knife  !  And  then  she  laughed  again. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?"  he  said. 

"  It  popped  into  my  head,  supposing  Susan 
should  have  looked  in  at  the  south  window  and 
Joshua  into  the  door,  when  you  was  feeding  out 
that  oyster  to  me,  what  they  would  have  thought  !" 

Eph  laughed,  too,  and,  surely  enough,  just  then 
a  stout,  light-haired,  rather  plain-looking  young 
woman  came  up  to  the  south  window  and  leaned 
in.  She  had  on  a  sun-bonnet,  which  had  not  pre- 
vented her  from  securing  a  few  choice  freckles. 
She  had  been  working  with  a  trowel  in  her  flower- 
garden. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  said,  nodding  easily 
to  Eph.  "  What  do  you  two  always  find  to  laugh 
about  ?" 

"  Ephraim  was  feeding  me  with  spoon-meat," 
said  Aunt  Lyddy,  pointing  to  the  basket,  which 
looked  like  a  basket  of  anthracite  coal. 


22  THE    VILLAGE   CONVICT, 

"  It  looks  like  spoon-meat,"  said  Susan,  and 
then  she  laughed  too.  "  I'll  roast  some  of 
them  for  supper,"  she  added,  "  a  new  way  that  I 
know." 

Eph  was  not  invited  to  stay  to  supper,  but  he 
stayed,  none  the  less  :  that  was  always  understood. 

"Well!  Well!  Well!"  said  Joshua,  coming 
to  the  door-step,  and  washing  his  hands  and 
arms  just  outside,  in  a  tin  basin.  "  I  thought  I  see 
you  set  down  a  parcel  of  oysters — but  there  was 
seaweed  over  'em,  and  I  don'  know's  I  could  hev 
said  they  was  oysters  ;  but  then,  if  the  square 
question  hed  been  put  to  me,  '  Mr.  Carr,  be  them 
oysters  or  not?'  I  s'pose  I  should  hev  said  they 
was  ;  still,  if  they'd  asked  me  how  I  knew — " 

"  Come,  come,  father  !"  said  Aunt  Lyddy,  "  do 
give  poor  Ephraim  a  little  peace.  Why  don't  you 
just  say  you  thought  they  were  oysters,  and  done 
with  it?" 

"  Say  I  thought  they  was  ?"  he  replied,  innocently. 
"  I  knew  well  enough  they  was — that  is — knew  ? 
No,  I  didn't  know,  but—" 

Aunt  Lyddy,  with  an  air  of  mock  resignation, 
gave  up,  while  Joshua  endeavored  to  fix,  to  a  hair, 
the  exact  extent  of  his  knowledge. 

Eph  smiled  ;  but  he  remembered  what  would 
have  made  him  pardon,  a  thousand  times  over,  the 
old  man's  garrulousness.  He  remembered  who 
alone  had  never  failed,  once  a  year,  to  visit  a  cer- 
tain prisoner,  at  the  cost  of  a  long  and  tiresome 
journey,  and  who  had  written  to  that  homesick 


THE    VILLAGE   CONVICT.  2$ 

prisoner  kind  and  cheering  letters,  and  had  sent 
him  baskets  of  simple  dainties  for  holidays. 

Susan  bustled  about,  and  made  a  fire  of  crack, 
ling  sticks,  and  began  to  roast  the  oysters  in  a  way 
that  made  a  most  savory  smell.  She  set  the  table, 
and  then  sat  down  at  the  melodeon,  while  she  was 
waiting,  and  sang  a  hymn — for  she  was  of  a 
musical  turn,  and  was  one  of  the  choir.  Then 
she  jumped  up,  and  took  out  the  steaming  oysters, 
and  they  all  sat  down. 

"  Well,  well,  well  !"  said  her  father  ;  "  these  be 
good  !  I  didn't  s'pose  you  had  any  very  good  oys- 
ters in  your  bed,  Ephraim.  But  there,  now — I  don' 
s'pose  I  ought  to  have  said  that  ;  that  wasn't  very 
polite  ;  but  what  I  meant  was — I  didn't  s'pose  you 
had  any  that  was  real  good — though  I  don'  know 
but  that  I've  said  about  the  same  thing,  now. 
Well,  anyway,  these  be  splendid  ;  they're  full  as 
good  as  those  cohogs  we  had  t'other  night." 

"  Quahaugs  !"  said  Susan.  "The  idea  of  com- 
paring these  oysters  with  quahaugs  !" 

"  Well,  well  !  that's  so  !"  said  the  father.  "  I 
didn't  say  right,  did  I,  when  I  said  that?  Of 
course,  they  ain't  no  comparison — that  is — no  com- 
parison— why,  of  course,  they  is  a  comparison 
between  everything,  but  then,  cohogs  don'  really 
compare  with  oysters  !  That's  true  !" 

And  then  he  paused  to  eat  a  few. 

He  was  silent  so  long  at  this  occupation  that  they 
all  laughed. 

"  Well,  well  !"  said  he,  laying  down  his  fork,  and 


24  TttE    VILLAGE   CONVICT. 

smiling  innocently  ;  "  what  be  you  all  laughin'  at  ? 
Not  but  what  I  allers  like  to  hev  folks  laugh — but 
then — I  didn't  see  nothin'  to  laugh  at.  Still, 
perhaps,  they  was  suthin'  to  laugh  at  that  I  didn't 
see  ;  sometimes  one  man'll  be  lookin'-  down  into 
his  plate,  all  taken  up  with  his  vittles,  and  others, 
that's  lookin'  around  the  room,  may  see  the  kittens 
frolickin',  or  some  such  thing.  'Tain't  the  fust 
time  I've  known  all  hands  to  laugh  all  to  onct, 
when  I  didn't  see  nothin'." 

Susan  helped  him  again,  and  secured  another 
brief  respite. 

"  Ephraim,"  said  he,  after  awhile,  "you  ain't 
skilled  to  cook  oysters  like  this,  I  don'  believe. 
You  ought  to  get  married  !  I  was  sayin'  to  Susan 
t'other  day — well,  now,  mother,  have  I  said  an'- 
thing  out  o'  the  way  ? — well,  I  don'  s'pose  'twas 
just  my  place  to  hev  said  an'thing  about  gittin' 
married,  to  Ephraim,  seein's — 

"  Come,  come,  father,"  said  Aunt  Lyddy, 
"  that'll  do,  now.  You  must  let  Ephraim  alone, 
and  not  joke  him  about  such  things." 

Meanwhile  Susan  had  hastily  gone  into  the 
pantry  to  look  for  a  pie,  which  she  seemed  unable 
at  once  to  find. 

"  Pie  got  adrift?"  called  out  Joshua.  "Seems 
to  me  you  don'  hook  on  to  it  very  quick.  Now 
that  looks  good,"  he  added,  when  she  came  out. 
"  That  looks  like  cookin'  !  All  I  meant  was,  't 
Ephraim  ought  not  to  be  doin'  his  own  cookin'  — 
that  is — if  you  can  call  it  cookin' — but  then,  of 


THE    VILLAGE   CONVICT.  25 

course,  'tis  cookin' — there's  all  kinds  o'  cookin'. 
I  went  cook  myself,  when  I  was  a  boy." 

After  supper,  Aunt  Lyddy  sat  down  to  knit,  and 
Joshua  drew  his  chair  up  to  an  open  window,  to 
smoke  his  pipe.  In  this  vice  Aunt  Lyddy  encour- 
aged him.  The  odor  of  Virginia  tobacco  was  a 
sweet  savor  in  her  nostrils.  No  breezes  from  Araby 
ever  awoke  more  grateful  feelings  than  did  the 
fragrance  of  Uncle  Joshua's  pipe.  To  Aunt  Lyddy 
it  meant  quiet  and  peace. 

Susan  and  Eph  sat  down  on  the  broad  flag  door- 
stone,  and  talked  quietly  of  the  simple  news  of  the 
neighborhood,  and  of  the  days  when  they  used  to 
go  to  school,  and  come  home,  always  together. 

"I  didn't  much  think,  then,"  said  Eph,  "that 
I  should  ever  bring  up  where  I  have,  and  get 
ashore  before  I  was  fairly  out  to  sea  !" 

"  Jehiel's  schooner  got  ashore  on  the  bar,  years 
ago,"  said  Susan,  "  and  yet  they  towed  her  off, 
and  I  saw  her  this  morning,  from  my  chamber 
window,  before  sunrise,  all  sail  set,  going  by  to  the 
eastward." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Eph.  "  But 
here — I  got  mad  once,  and  I  almost  had  a  right  to, 
and  I  can't  get  started  again  ;  I  never  shall.  I  can 
get  a  livin',  of  course  ;  but  I  shall  always  be 
pointed  out  as  a  jail-bird,  and  could  no  more  get 
any  footin'  in  the  world  than  Portuguese  Jim." 

Portuguese  Jim  was  the  sole  professional  criminal 
of  the  town,  a  weak,  good-natured,  knock-kneed 
vagabond,  who  stole  hens,  and  spent  every  winter 


26  THE    VILLAGE  CONVICT. 

in  the  House  of  Correction  as  an  "  idle  and  dis- 
orderly person." 

Susan  laughed  outright  at  the  picture.  Eph 
smiled,  too,  but  a  little  bitterly. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  more  ugliness  than  anything 
else,"  he  said,  "  that  made  me  come  back  here  to 
live,  where  everybody  knows  I've  been  in  jail  and 
is  down  on  me." 

"  They  are  not  down  on  you,"  said  Susan.  "  No- 
body is  down  on  you.  It's  all  your  own  imagina- 
tion. And  if  you  had  gone  anywhere  that  you  was 
a  stranger,  you  know  that  the  first  thing  that  you 
would  have  done  would  have  been  to  call  a  meetin' 
and  tell  all  the  people  that  you  had  burned  down 
a  man's  barn,  and  been  in  the  State' s-prison,  and 
that  you  wanted  them  all  to  know  it  at  the  start  ; 
and  you  wouldn't  have  told  them  why  you  did  it, 
and  how  young  you  was  then,  and  how  Eliphalet 
treated  your  mother,  and  how  you  was  going  to 
pay  him  for  all  he  lost.  Here,  everybody  knows 
that  side  of  it.  In  fact,"  she  added,  with  a  little 
twinkle  in  her  eye,  "  I  have  sometimes  had  an  idea 
that  the  main  thing  they  don't  like  is  to  see  you 
savin'  every  cent  to  pay  to  Eliphalet." 

"  And  yet  it  was  on  your  say  that  I  took  up  that 
plan,"  said  Eph.  "  I  never  thought  of  it  till  you 
asked  me  when  I  was  goin'  to  begin  to  pay  him  up." 

"  And  you  ought  to,"  said  Susan.  "  He  has  a 
right  to  the  money — and  then  you  don't  want  to  be 
under  obligations  to  that  man  all  your  life.  Now, 
what  you  want  to  do  is  to  cheer  up  and  go  around 


THE    VILLAGE   CONVICT.  27 

among  folks.  Why,  now,  you're  the  only  fish- 
buyer  there  is  that  the  men  don't  watch  when  he's 
weighin'  their  fish.  You'll  own  up  to  that,  for 
one  thing,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Well,  they  are  good  fellows  that  bring  fish  to 
me,"  he  said. 

"  They  weren't  good  fellows  when  they  traded 
at  the  great  wharf,"  said  Susan.  "  They  had  a 
quarrel  down  there  once  a  week,  reg'larly." 

"  Well,  suppose  they  do  trust  me  in  that,"  said 
Eph.  "  I  can  never  rub  out  that  I've  been  in 
State's-prison." 

"  You  don't  want  to  rub  it  out.  You  can't  rub 
anything  out  that's  ever  been  ;  but  you  can  do 
better  than  rub  it  out." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Take  things  just  the  way  they  are,"  said 
Susan,  "  and  show  what  can  be  done.  Perhaps 
you'll  stake  a  new  channel  out,  for  others  to  follow 
in  that  haven't  half  so  much  chance  as  you  have. 
And  that's  what  you  will  do,  too,"  she  added. 

"  Susan  !"  he  said,  "  if  there's  anything  I  can 
ever  do,  in  this  world  or  the  next,  for  you  or  your 
folks,  that's  all  I  ask  for,  the  chance  to  do  it.  Your 
folks  and  you  shall  never  want  for  anything  while 
I'm  alive. 

"  There's  one  thing  sure,"  he  added,  rising. 
"  I'll  live  by  myself  and  be  independent  of  every- 
body, and  make  my  way  all  alone  in  the  world  ; 
and  if  I  can  make  'em  all  finally  own  up  and  admit 
that  I'm  honest  with  'em,  I'm  satisfied.  That's  all 


28  THE    VILLAGE   CONVICT. 

I'll  ever  ask  of  anybody.  But  there's  one  thing 
that  worries  me  sometimes — that  is,  whether  I 
ought  to  come  here  so  often.  I'm  afraid,  some- 
times, that  it'll  hinder  your  father  from  gettin' 
work,  or— something — for  you  folks  to  be  friends 
with  me." 

"  I  think  such  things  take  care  of  themselves," 
said  Susan,  quietly.  "  If  a  chip  won't  float,  let  it 
sink." 

"  Good-night,"  said  Eph,  and  he  walked  off, 
and  went  home  to  his  echoing  house. 

After  that,  his  visits  to  Joshua's  became  less  fre- 
quent. 

It  was  a  bright  day  in  March — one  of  those  which 
almost  redeem  the  reputation  of  that  desperado  of  a 
month.  Eph  was  leaning  on  his  fence,  looking  now 
down  the  bay  and  now  to  where  the  sun  was  sink- 
ing in  the  marshes.  He  knew  that  all  the  other  men 
had  gone  to  the  town-meeting,  where  he  had  had 
no  heart  to  intrude  himself — that  free  democratic 
parliament  where  he  had  often  gone  with  his  father 
in  childhood  ;  where  the  boys,  rejoicing  in  a 
general  assembly  of  their  own,  had  played  ball 
outside,  while  the  men  debated  gravely  within. 
He  recalled  the  time  when  he  himself  had  so 
proudly  given  his  first  vote  for  President,  and  how 
his  father  had  introduced  him  then  to  friends  from 
distant  parts  of  the  town.  He  remembered  how 
he  had  heard  his  father  speak  there,  and  how  re- 
spectfully everybody  had  listened  to  him.  That 


THE    VILLAGE   CONVICT.  29 

was  in  the  long  ago,  when  they  had  lived  at  the 
great  farm.  And  then  came  the  thought  of  the 
mortgage,  and  of  Eliphalet's  foreclosure,  and — 

"  Hallo,  Eph  !" 

It  was  one  of  the  men  from  whom  he  took  fish 
•—a  plain-spoken,  sincere  little  man. 

"  Why  wa'n't  you  down  to  town-meet'n'  ?" 

"  I  was  busy,"  said  Eph. 

"  How'd  ye  like  the  news  ?" 

"  What  news  ?" 

There  was  never  any  good  news  for  him  now. 

"  Hain't  heard  who's  selected  town-clerk  ?" 

"  No." 

Had  they  elected  Eliphalet,  and  so  expressed 
their  settled  distrust  of  him,  and  sympathy  for  the 
man  whom  he  had  injured  ? 

"  Who's  elected  ?"  he  asked,  harshly. 

"  You  be  !"  said  the  man  ;  "  went  in  flyin',  all 
hands  clappin'  and  stompin'  their  feet  !" 

An  hour  later  the  doctor  drove  up,  stopped,  and 
walked  toward  the  kitchen  door.  As  he  passed 
the  window,  he  looked  in. 

Eph  was  lying  on  his  face,  upon  the  settle,  as  he 
had  first  seen  him  there,  his  arms  beneath  his  head. 

"  I  will  not  disturb  him  now,"  said  the  doctor. 

One  breezy  afternoon,  in  the  following  summer, 
Captain  Seth  laid  aside  his  easy  every-day  clothes, 
and  transformed  himself  into  a  stiff  broadcloth 
image,  with  a  small  silk  hat  and  creaking  boots. 
So  attired,  he  set  out  in  a  high  open  buggy,  with 


30  THE    VILLAGE    CONVICT. 

his  wife,  also  in  black,  but  with  gold  spectacles,  to 
the  funeral  of  an  aunt.  As  they  pursued  their  jog- 
trot journey  along  the  Salt  Hay  Road,  and  came 
to  Ephraim  Morse's  cottage,  they  saw  Susan  sitting 
in  a  shady  little  porch,  at  the  front  door,  shelling 
peas,  and  looking  down  the  bay. 

"  How  is  everything,  Susan  ?"  called  out  Captain 
Seth  ;  "  'bout  time  for  Eph  to  be  gitt'n'  in  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  nodding  and  smiling,  and 
pointing  with  a  pea-pod  ;  "  that's  our  boat,  just 
coming  up  to  the  wharf,  with  her  peak  down." 


THE  DENVER  EXPRESS. 

BY  A.  A.  HAYES. 


I. 

ANY    one    who     has    seen   an   outward-bound 
clipper  ship  getting  under  way  and  heard  the 
"  shanty-songs  "  sung  by  the  sailors  as  they  toiled 
at  capstan  and  halliards,  will  probably  remember 
'that  rhymeless  but  melodious  refrain — 

"I'm  bound  to  see  its  muddy  waters 

Yeo  ho  !  that  rolling  river  ; 
Bound  to  see  its  muddy  waters 
Yeo  ho  !  the  wild  Missouri." 

Only  a  happy  inspiration  could  have  impelled 
Jack  to  apply  the  adjective  "  wild  "  to  that  ill- 
behaved  and  disreputable  river,  which,  tipsily  bear- 
ing its  enormous  burden  of  mud  from  the  far 
North-west,  totters,  reels,  runs  its  tortuous  course 
for  hundreds  on  hundreds  of  miles  ;  and  which, 

January^  1884, 


32  THE  DENVER  EXPRESS. 

encountering  the  lordly  and  thus  far  well-behaved 
Mississippi  at  Alton,  and  forcing  its  company  upon 
this  splendid  river  (as  if  some  drunken  fellow 
should  lock  arms  with  a  dignified  pedestrian),  con- 
taminates it  all  the  way  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

At  a  certain  point  on  the  banks  of  this  river,  or 
rather — as  it  has  the  habit  of  abandoning  and 
destroying  said  banks — at  a  safe  distance  there- 
from, there  is  a  town  from  which  a  railroad  takes 
its  departure  for  its  long  climb  up  the  natural 
incline  of  the  Great  Plains,  to  the  base  of  the 
mountains  ;  hence  the  importance  to  this  town  of 
the  large  but  somewhat  shabby  building  serving  as 
terminal  station.  In  its  smoky  interior,  late  in  the 
evening  and  not  very  long  ago,  a  train  was  nearly 
read)7  to  start.  It  was  a  train  possessing  a  certain 
consideration.  For  the  benefit  of  a  public  easily 
gulled  and  enamored  of  grandiloquent  terms,  it 
was  advertised  as  the  "  Denver  Fast  Express  ;" 
sometimes,  with  strange  unfitness,  as  the  "  Light- 
ning Express";  "elegant"  and  "palatial"  cars 
were  declared  to  be  included  therein  ;  and  its 
departure  was  one  of  the  great  events  of  the 
twenty-four  hours,  in  the  country  round  about.  A 
local  poet  described  it  in  the  "  live  "  paper  of  the 
town,  cribbing  from  an  old  Eastern  magazine  and 
passing  off  as  original,  the  lines — 

"  Again  we  stepped  into  the  street, 

A  train  came  thundering  by, 
Drawn  by  the  snorting  iron  steed 
Swifter  than  eagles  fly. 


THE   DENVER  EXPRESS.  33 

Rumbled  the  wheels,  the  whistle  shrieked, 

Far  rolled  the  smoky  cloud, 
Echoed  the  hills,  the  valleys  shook, 

The  flying  forests  bowed." 

The  trainmen,  on  the  other  hand,  used  no  fine 
phrases.  They  called  it  simply  "  Number  Seven- 
teen ";  and,  when  it  started,  said  it  had  "  pulled 
out." 

On  the  evening  in  question,  there  it  stood,  nearly 
ready.  Just  behind  the  great  hissing  locomotive, 
with  its  parabolic  headlight  and  its  coal-laden 
tender,  came  the  baggage,  mail,  and  express  cars  ; 
then  the  passenger  coaches,  in  which  the  social 
condition  of  the  occupants  seemed  to  be  in  inverse 
ratio  to  their  distance  from  the  engine.  First  came 
emigrants,  "honest  miners,"  "cow-boys,"  and 
laborers  ;  Irishmen,  Germans,  Welshmen,  Men- 
nonites  from  Russia,  quaint  of  garb  and  speech, 
and  Chinamen.  Then  came  long  cars  full  of  peo- 
ple of  better  station,  and  last  the  great  Pullman 
"  sleepers,"  in  which  the  busy  black  porters  were 
making  up  the  berths  for  well-to-do  travellers  of 
diverse  nationalities  and  occupations. 

It  was  a  curious  study  for  a  thoughtful  observer, 
this  motley  crowd  of  human  beings  sinking  all 
differences  of  race,  creed,  and  habits  in  the  com- 
mon purpose  to  move  Westward — to  the  mountain 
fastnesses,  the  sage-brush  deserts,  the  Golden 
Gate. 

The  warning  bell  had  sounded,  and  the  fireman 
leaned  far  out  for  the  signal.  The  gong  struck 


34  THE  DENVER  EXPRESS. 

sharply,  the  conductor  shouted,  "All  aboard," 
and  raised  his  hand  ;  the  tired  ticket-seller  shut  his 
window,  and  the  train  moved  out  of  the  station, 
gathered  way  as  it  cleared  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
rounded  a  curve,  entered  on  an  absolutely  straight 
line,  and,  with  one  long  whistle  from  the  engine, 
settled  down  to  its  work.  Through  the  night 
hours  it  sped  on,  past  lonely  ranches  and  infre- 
quent stations,  by  and  across  shallow  streams 
fringed  with  cottonwood  trees,  over  the  greenish- 
yellow  buffalo  grass  ;  near  the  old  trail  where  many 
a  poor  emigrant,  many  a  bold  frontiersman,  many 
a  brave  soldier,  had  laid  his  bones  but  a  short  time 
before. 

Familiar  as  they  may  be,  there  is  something 
strangely  impressive  about  all  night  journeys  by 
rail  ;  and  those  forming  part  of  an  American 
transcontinental  trip  are  almost  weird.  From  the 
windows  of  anight-express  in  Europe,  or  the  older 
portions  of  the  United  States,  one  looks  on  houses 
and  lights,  cultivated  fields,  fences,  and  hedges  ; 
and,  hurled  as  he  may  be  through  the  darkness,  he 
has  a  sense  of  companionship  and  semi-security. 
Far  different  is  it  when  the  long  train  is  running 
over  those  two  rails  which,  seen  before  night  set  in, 
seemed  to  meet  on  the  horizon.  Within,  all  is  as 
if  between  two  great  seaboard  cities  ;  the  neatly 
dressed  people,  the  uniformed  officials,  the  hand- 
some fittings,  the  various  appliances  for  comfort. 
Without  are  now  long,  dreary  levels,  now  deep  and 
wild  canons,  now  an  environment  of  strange  and 


THE    DENVER  EXPRESS.  35 

grotesque  rock-formations,  castles,  battlements, 
churches,  statues.  The  antelope  fleetly  runs,  and 
the  coyote  skulks  away  from  the  track,  and  the 
gray  wolf  howls  afar  off.  It  is  for  all  the  world, 
to  one's  fancy,  as  if  a  bit  of  civilization,  a  family 
or  community,  its  belongings  and  surroundings 
complete,  were  flying  through  regions  barbarous 
and  inhospitable. 

From  the  cab  of  Engine  No.  32,  the  driver  of  the 
Denver  Express  saw,  showing  faintly  in  the  early 
morning,  the  buildings  grouped  about  the  little 
station  ten  miles  ahead,  where  breakfast  awaited 
his  passengers.  He  looked  at  his  watch  ;  he  had  just 
twenty  minutes  in  which  to  run  the  distance,  as  he 
had  run  it  often  before.  Something,  however,  trav- 
elled faster  than  he.  From  the  smoky  station  out 
of  which  the  train  passed  the  night  before,  along  the 
slender  wire  stretched  on  rough  poles  at  the  side 
of  the  track,  a  spark  of  that  mysterious  something 
which  we  call  electricity  flashed  at  the  moment  he 
returned  the  watch  to  his  pocket  ;  and  in  five 
minutes'  time,  the  station-master  came  out  on  the 
platform,  a  little  more  thoughtful  than  his  wont, 
and  looked  eastward  for  the  smoke  of  the  train. 
With  but  three  of  the  passengers  in  that  train  has 
this  tale  specially  to  do,  and  they  were  all  in  the 
new  and  comfortable  Pullman  ' '  City  of  Cheyenne. ' ' 
One  was  a  tall,  well-made  man  of  about  thirty 
—  blond,  blue-eyed,  bearded,  straight,  sinewy, 
alert.  Of  all  in  the  train  he  seemed  the  most  thor- 
oughly at  home,  and  the  respectful  greeting  of  the 


36  THE  DENVER  EXPRESS. 

conductor,  as  he  passed  through  the  car,  marked 
him  as  an  officer  of  the  road.  Such  was  he — Henry 
Sinclair,  assistant  engineer,  quite  famed  on  the 
line,  high  in  favor  with  the  directors,  and  a  rising 
man  in  all  ways.  It  was  known  on  the  road  that 
he  was  expected  in  Denver,  and  there  were  rumors 
that  he  was  to  organize  the  parties  for  the  survey 
of  an  important  "  extension."  Beside  him  sat  his 
pretty  young  wife.  She  was  a  New  Yorker — one 
could  tell  at  first  glance  —from  the  feather  of  her 
little  bonnet,  matching  the  gray  travelling  dress, 
to  the  tips  of  her  dainty  boots  ;  and  one,  too,  at 
whom  old  Fifth  Avenue  promenaders  would  have 
turned  to  look.  She  had  a  charming  figure,  brown 
hair,  hazel  eyes,  and  an  expression  at  once  kind, 
intelligent,  and  spirited.  She  had  cheerfully  left  a 
luxurious  home  to  follow  the  young  engineer's  fort- 
unes ;  and  it  was  well  known  that  those  fortunes 
had  been  materially  advanced  by  her  tact  and 
cleverness. 

The  third  passenger  in  question  had  just  been 
in  conversation  with  Sinclair,  and  the  latter  was 
telling  his  wife  of  their  curious  meeting.  Entering 
the  toilet-room  at  the  rear  of  the  car,  he  said,  he 
had  begun  his  ablutions  by  the  side  of  another 
man,  and  it  was  as  they  were  sluicing  their  faces 
with  water  that  he  heard  the  cry  : 

"  Why,  Major,  is  that  you  ?  Just  to  think  of 
meeting  you  here  !" 

A  man  of  about  twenty-eight  years  of  age,  slight, 
muscular,  wiry,  had  seized  his  wet  hand  and  was 


THE  DENVER  EXPRESS.  37 

wringing  it.  He  had  black  eyes,  keen  and  bright, 
swarthy  complexion,  black  hair  and  mustache. 
A  keen  observer  might  have  seen  about  him  some 
signs  of  a  jeunesse  orageuse,  but  his  manner  was 
frank  and  pleasing.  Sinclair  looked  him  in  the 
face,  puzzled  for  a  moment. 

"  Don't  you  remember  Foster  ?"  asked  the  man. 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  replied  Sinclair.  "  For  a 
moment  I  could  not  place  you.  Where  have  you 
been  and  what  have  you  been  doing  ?" 

"  Oh,"  replied  Foster,  laughing,  "  I've  braced 
up  and  turned  over  a  new  leaf.  I'm  a  respectable 
member  of  society,  have  a  place  in  the  express 
company,  and  am  going  to  Denver  to  take  charge." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,  and  you  must  tell 
me  your  story  when  we  have  had  our  breakfast." 

The  pretty  young  woman  was  just  about  to  ask 
who  Foster  was,  when  the  speed  of  the  train  slack- 
ened, and  the  brakeman  opened  the  door  of  the  car 
and  cried  out  in  stentorian  tones  : 

"  Pawnee  Junction  ;  twenty  minutes  for  refresh- 
ments !" 


II. 

When  the  celebrated  Rocky  Mountain  gold  ex- 
citement broke  out,  more  than  twenty  years  ago, 
and  people  painted  "  PIKE'S  PEAK  OR  BUST"  on  the 


38  THE   DENVER   EXPRESS. 

canvas  covers  of  their  wagons  and  started  for  the 
diggings,  they  established  a  "  trail  "  or  "  trace  " 
leading  in  a  south-westerly  direction  from  the  old 
one  to  California. 

At  a  certain  point  on  this  trail  a  frontiersman 
named  Barker  built  a  forlorn  ranch-house  and  cor- 
ral, and  offered  what  is  conventionally  called  "  en- 
tertainment for  man  and  beast." 

For  years  he  lived  there,  dividing  his  time 
between  fighting  the  Indians  and  feeding  the  pass- 
ing emigrants  and  their  stock.  Then  the  first  rail- 
road to  Denver  was  built,  taking  another  route 
from  the  Missouri,  and  Barker's  occupation  was 
gone.  He  retired  with  his  gains  to  St.  Louis  and 
lived  in  comfort. 

Years  passed  on,  and  the  "  extension"  over  which 
our  train  is  to  pass  was  planned.  The  old  pioneers 
were  excellent  natural  engineers,  and  their  succes- 
sors could  find  no  better  route  than  they  had  chosen. 
Thus  it  was  that  "  Barker's"  became,  during  the 
construction  period,  an  important  point,  and  the 
frontiersman's  name  came  to  figure  on  time-tables. 
Meanwhile  the  place  passed  through  a  process  of 
evolution  which  would  have  delighted  Darwin.  In 
the  party  of  engineers  which  first  camped  there 
was  Sinclair,  and  it  was  by  his  advice  that  the 
contractors  selected  it  for  division  headquarters. 
Then  came  drinking  "  saloons,"  and  gambling- 
houses — alike  the  inevitable  concomitant  and  the 
bane  of  Western  settlements  ;  then  scattered  houses 
and  shops,  and  a  shabby  so-called  hotel,  in  which 


THE  DENVER  EXPRESS.  39 

the  letting  of  miserable  rooms  (divided  from  each 
other  by  canvas  partitions)  was  wholly  subordi- 
nated to  the  business  of  the  bar.  Before  long, 
Barker's  had  acquired  a  worse  reputation  than  even 
other  towns  of  its  type,  the  abnormal  and  uncanny 
aggregations  of  squalor  and  vice  which  dotted  the 
plains  in  those  days  ;  and  it  was  at  its  worst  when 
Sinclair  returned  thither  and  took  up  his  quar- 
ters in  the  engineers'  building.  The  passion  for 
gambling  was  raging,  and  to  pander  thereto  were 
collected  as  choice  a  lot  of  desperadoes  as  ever 
"  stocked  "  cards  or  loaded  dice.  It  came  to  be 
noticed  that  they  were  on  excellent  terms  with  a 
man  called  "  Jeff  "  Johnson,  who  was  lessee  of  the 
hotel  ;  and  to  be  suspected  that  said  Johnson,  in 
local  parlance,  "  stood  in  with  "  them.  With  this 
man  had  come  to  Barker's  his  daughter  Sarah, 
commonly  known  as  "  Sally,"  a  handsome  girl 
with  a  straight,  lithe  figure,  fine  features,  reddish 
auburn  hair,  and  dark  blue  eyes.  It  is  but  fair  to 
say  that  even  the  "  toughs"  of  a  place  like  Barker's 
show  some  respect  for  the  other  sex,  and  Miss 
Sally's  case  was  no  exception  to  the  rule.  The 
male  population  admired  her  ;  they  said  she  "  put 
on  heaps  of  style";  but  none  of  them  had  seemed 
to  make  any  progress  in  her  good  graces. 

On  a  pleasant  afternoon,  just  after  the  track  had 
been  laid  some  miles  west  of  Barker's,  and  con 
struction  trains  were  running  with  some  regularity 
to  and  from  the  end  thereof,  Sinclair  sat  on  the 
rude  veranda  of  the  engineers'  quarters,  smoking 


40  THE   DENVER   EXPRESS. 

his  well-colored  meerschaum  and  looking  at  the 
sunset.  The  atmosphere  had  been  so  clear  during 
the  day  that  glimpses  were  had  of  Long's  and 
Pike's  peaks,  and  as  the  young  engineer  gazed  at 
the  gorgeous  cloud-display  he  was  thinking  of  the 
miners'  quaint  and  pathetic  idea  that  the  dead  "  go 
over  the  Range." 

"Nice-looking,  ain't  it,  Major?"  asked  a  voice 
at  his  elbow,  and  he  turned  to  see  one  of  the  con- 
tractors' officials  taking  a  seat  near  him. 

"  More  than  nice-looking,  to  my  mind,  Sam," 
he  replied.  "  What  is  the  news  to-day  ?" 

"  Nothin'  much.  There's  a  sight  of  talk  about 
the  doin'sof  them  faro  an'  keno  sharps.  The  boys 
is  gittin'  kind  o'  riled,  fur  they  allow  the  game 
ain't  on  the  square  wuth  a  cent.  Some  of  'em 
down  to  the  tie-camp  wuz  a-talkin'  about  a  vigi- 
lance committee,  an'  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  ef  they 
meant  business.  Hev  yer  heard  about  the  young 
feller  that  come  in  a  week  ago  from  Laramie  an' 
set  up  a  new  faro-bank  ?" 

"  No.     What  about  him  ?" 

"  Wa'al,  yer  see  he's  a  feller  thet's  got  a  lot  of 
sand  an'  ain't  afeared  of  nobody,  an'  he's  allowed 
to  hev  the  deal  to  his  place  on  the  square  every 
time.  Accordin'  to  my  idee,  gamblin's  about  the 
wust  racket  a  feller  kin  work,  but  it  takes  all  sorts 
of  men  to  make  a  world,  an'  ef  the  boys  is  bound 
to  hev  a  game,  I  calkilate  they'd  like  to  patronize 
his  bank.  Thet's  made  the  old  crowd  mighty  mad, 
an'  they're  a-talkin'  about  puttin'  up  a  job  of 


THE   DENVER  EXPRESS.  41 

cheatin'  on  him  an'  then  stringin'  him  up.  Be- 
sides, I  kind  o'  think  there's  some  cussed  jealousy 
on  another  lay  as  comes  in.  Yer  see  the  young 
feller — Cyrus  Foster's  his  name — is  sweet  on  thet 
gal  of  Jeff  Johnson's.  Jeff  wuz  to  Laramie  before 
he  come  here,  an'  Foster  knowed  Sally  up  thar.  I 
allow  he  moved  here  to  see  her.  Hello  !  Ef  thar 
they  ain't  a  comin'  now." 

Down  a  path  leading  from  the  town,  past  the  rail- 
road buildings,  and  well  on  the  prairie,  Sinclair 
saw  the  girl  walking  with  the  "  young  feller." 
He  was  talking  earnestly  to  her,  and  her  eyes  were 
cast  down.  She  looked  pretty  and,  in  a  way, 
graceful  ;  and  there  was  in  her  attire  a  noticeable 
attempt  at  neatness,  and  a  faint  reminiscence  of 
by-gone  fashions.  A  smile  came  to  Sinclair's  lips 
as  he  thought  of  a  couple  walking  up  Fifth  Avenue 
during  his  leave  of  absence  not  many  months 
before,  and  of  a  letter,  many  times  read,  lying  at 
that  moment  in  his  breast-pocket. 

"  Papa's  bark  is  worse  than  his  bite,"  ran  one 
of  its  sentences.  "  Of  course  he  does  not  like  the 
idea  of  my  leaving  him  and  going  away  to  such 
dreadful  and  remote  places  as  Denver  and  Omaha, 
and  I  don't  know  what  else  ;  but  he  will  not 
oppose  me  in  the  end,  and  when  you  come  on 
again ' ' 

"  By  thunder  !"  exclaimed  Sam  ;  "  ef  thar  ain't 
one  of  them  cussed  sharps  a-watchin'  'em." 

Sure  enough,  a  rough-looking  fellow,  his  hat 
pulled  over  his  eyes,  half  concealed  behind  a  pile 


42  THE   DENVER   EXPRESS. 

of  lumber,  was  casting  a  sinister  glance  toward  the 
pair. 

"  The  gal's  well  enough,"  continued  Sam  ; 
"  but  I  don't  take  a  cent's  wuth  of  stock  in  thet 
thar  father  of  her'n.  He's  in  with  them  sharps, 
sure  pop,  an'  it  don't  suit  his  book  to  hev  Foster 
hangin'  round.  It's  ten  to  one  he  sent  that 
cuss  to  watch  'em.  Wa'al,  they're  a  queer  lot,  an' 
I'm  afeared  thar's  plenty  of  trouble  ahead  among 
'em.  Good  luck  to  you,  Major,"  and  he  pushed 
back  his  chair  and  walked  away. 

After  breakfast  next  morning,  when  Sinclair  was 
sitting  at  the  table  in  his  office,  busy  with  maps  and 
plans,  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  Foster,  pant- 
ing for  breath,  ran  in. 

"  Major  Sinclair,"  he  said,  speaking  with  diffi- 
culty, "  I've  no  claim  on  you,  but  I  ask  you  to 
protect  me.  The  other  gamblers  are  going  to  hang 
me.  They  are  more  than  ten  to  one.  They  will 
track  me  here,  and  unless  you  harbor  me,  I'm  a 
dead  man. 

Sinclair  rose  from  his  chair  in  a  second  and 
walked  to  the  window.  A  party  of  men  were 
approaching  the  building.  He  turned  to  Fos- 
ter : 

"  I  do  not  like  your  trade,"  said  he  ;  "  but  I  will 
not  see  you  murdered  if  I  can  help  it.  You  are 
welcome  here."  Foster  said  "  Thank  you,"  stood 
still  a  moment,  and  then  began  to  pace  the  room, 
rapidly  clinching  his  hands,  his  whole  frame 
quivering,  his  eyes  flashing  fire  — "  for  all  the 


THE  DENVER  EXPRESS.  43 

world,"  Sinclair  said,  in  telling  the  story  after- 
ward, "  like  a  fierce  caged  tiger." 

"  My  God  !"  he  muttered,  with  concentrated 
intensity,  "  to  be  trapped,  TRAPPED  like  this  !" 

Sinclair  stepped  quickly  to  the  door  of  his  bed- 
room, and  motioned  Foster  to  enter.  Then  there 
came  a  knock  at  the  outer  door,  and  he  opened  it 
and  stood  on  the  threshold,  erect  and  firm.  Half 
a  dozen  "  toughs"  faced  him. 

"  Major,"  said  their  spokesman,  "  we  want  that 
man." 

"  You  cannot  have  him,  boys." 

"  Major,  we're  a-goin'  to  take  him." 

"You  had  better  not  try,"  said  Sinclair,  with 
perfect  ease  and  self-possession,  and  in  a  pleasant 
voice.  "  I  have  given  him  shelter,  and  you  can 
only  get  him  over  my  dead  body.  Of  course  you 
can  kill  me,  but  you  won't  do  even  that  without 
one  or  two  of  you  going  down  ;  and  then  you 
know  perfectly  well,  boys,  what  will  happen.  You 
know  that  if  you  lay  your  finger  on  a  railroad  man 
it's  all  up  with  you.  There  are  five  hundred  men 
in  the  tie-camp,  not  five  miles  away,  and  you  don't 
need  to  be  told  that  in  less  than  one  hour  after  they 
get  word  there  won't  be  a  piece  of  one  of  you  big 
enough  to  bury." 

The  men  made  no  reply.  They  looked  him 
straight  in  the  eyes  for  a  moment.  Had  they  seen 
a  sign  of  flinching  they  might  have  risked  the 
issue,  but  there  was  none.  With  muttered  curses, 
they  slunk  away.  Sinclair  shut  and  bolted  the 


44  THE   DENVER  EXPRESS. 

door,  then  opened  the  one  leading  to  the  bed- 
room. 

"  Foster,"  he  said,  "  the  train  will  pass  here  in 
half  an  hour.  Have  you  money  enough  ?" 

"  Plenty,  Major." 

"  Very  well  ;  keep  perfectly  quiet,  and  I  will  try 
to  get  you  safely  off."  He  went  to  an  adjoining 
room  and  called  Sam,  the  contractor's  man.  He 
took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance. 

"  Wa'al,  Foster,"  said  he,  "  kind  o'  '  close  call  ' 
for  yer,  warn't  it  ?  Guess  yer'd  better  be  gittin' 
up  an'  gittin'  pretty  lively.  The  train  boys  will 
take  yer  through,  an'  yer  kin  come  back  when  this 
racket's  worked  out." 

Sinclair  glanced  at  his  watch,  then  he  walked  to 
the  window  and  looked  out.  On  a  small  mesa,  or 
elevated-plateau,  commanding  the  path  to  the  rail- 
road, he  saw  a  number  of  men  with  rifles. 

;<  Just  as  I  expected,"  said  he.  "  Sam,  ask  one 
of  the  boys  to  go  down  to  the  track  and,  when  the 
train  arrives,  tell  the  conductor  to  come  here." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  whistle  was  heard,  and  the 
conductor  entered  the  building.  Receiving  his 
instructions,  he  returned,  and  immediately  on 
engine,  tender,  and  platform  appeared  the  train- 
men, with  their  rifles  covering  the  group  on  the 
bluff.  Sinclair  put  on  his  hat. 

"  Now,  Foster,"  said  he,  "  we  have  no  time  to 
lose.  Take  Sam's  arm  and  mine,  and  walk 
between  us." 

The  trio  left  the  building  and  walked  deliberately 


THE   DENVER  EXPRESS.  45 

to  the  railroad.  Not  a  word  was  spoken.  Besides 
the  men  in  sight  on  the  train,  two  behind  the 
window-blinds  of  the  one  passenger  coach,  and 
unseen,  kept  their  fingers  on  the  triggers  of  their 
repeating  carbines.  It  seemed  a  long  time, 
counted  by  anxious  seconds,  until  Foster  was  safe 
in  the  coach. 

"  All  ready,  conductor,"  said  Sinclair.  "  Now, 
Foster,  good-by.  I  am  not  good  at  lecturing,  but 
if  I  were  you,  I  would  make  this  the  turning-point 
in  my  life." 

Foster  was  much  moved. 

''I  will  do  it,  Major,"  said  he;  "and  I  shall 
never  forget  what  you  have  done  for  me  to-day.  I 
am  sure  we  shall  meet  again." 

With  another  shriek  from  the  whistle  the  train 
started.  Sinclair  and  Sam  saw  the  men  quietly 
returning  the  firearms  to  their  places  as  it  gathered 
way.  Then  they  walked  back  to  their  quarters. 
The  men  on  the  mesa,  balked  of  their  purpose,  had 
withdrawn. 

Sam  accompanied  Sinclair  to  his  door,  and  then 
sententiously  remarked  :  "  Major,  I  think  I'll  light 
out  and  find  some  of  the  boys.  You  ain't  got  no 
call  to  know  anything  about  it,  but  I  allow  it's 
about  time  them  cusses  was  bounced." 

Three  nights  after  this,  a  powerful  party  of 
Vigilantes,  stern  and  inexorable,  made  a  raid  on  all 
the  gambling  dens,  broke  the  tables  and  apparatus, 
and  conducted  the  men  to  a  distance  from  the 
town,  where  they  left  them  with  an  emphatic  and 


46  THE   DENVER   EXPRESS. 

concise  warning  as  to  the  consequences  of  any 
attempt  to  return.  An  exception  was  made  in  Jeff 
Johnson's  case — but  only  for  the  sake  of  his 
daughter — for  it  was  found  that  many  a  "  little 
game  "  had  been  carried  on  in  his  house. 

Erelong  he  found  it  convenient  to  sell  his  busi- 
ness and  retire  to  a  town  some  miles  to  the  east- 
ward, where  the  railroad  influence  was  not  as 
strong  as  at  Barker's.  At  about  this  time,  Sin- 
clair made  his  arrangements  to  go  to  New  York, 
with  the  pleasant  prospect  of  marrying  the  young 
lady  in  Fifth  Avenue.  In  due  time  he  arrived  at 
Barker's  with  his  young  and  charming  wife  and 
remained  for  some  days.  The  changes  were 
astounding.  Common-place  respectability  had 
replaced  abnormal  lawlessness.  A  neat  station 
stood  where  had  been  the  rough  contractor's  build- 
ings. At  a  new  "  Windsor"  (or  was  it  "  Bruns- 
wick "?)  the  performance  of  the  kitchen  contrasted 
sadly  (alas  !  how  common  is  such  contrast  in  these 
regions)  with  the  promise  of  the  menu.  There  was 
a  tawdry  theatre  yclept  "  Academy  of  Music,"  and 
there  was  not  much  to  choose  in  the  way  of  ugli- 
ness between  two  "  meeting-houses." 

"  Upon  my  word,  my  dear,"  said  Sinclair  to  his 
wife,  "  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  say  it,  but  I 
prefer  Barker's  au  naturel" 

One  evening,  just  before  the  young  people  left 
the  town,  and  as  Mrs.  Sinclair  sat  alone  in  her 
room,  the  frowsy  waitress  announced  "a  lady," 
and  was  requested  to  bid  her  enter.  A  woman 


THE   DENVER  EXPRESS.  47 

came  with  timid  mien  into  the  room,  sat  down,  as 
invited,  and  removed  her  veil.  Of  course  the 
young  bride  had  never  known  Sally  Johnson,  the 
whilom  belle  of  Barker's,  but  her  husband  would 
have  noticed  at  a  glance  how  greatly  she  was 
changed  from  the  girl  who  walked  with  Foster  past 
the  engineers'  quarters.  It  would  be  hard  to  find 
a  more  striking  contrast  than  was  presented  by  the 
two  women  as  they  sat  facing  each  other  :  the  one 
in  the  flush  of  health  and  beauty,  calm,  sweet,  self- 
possessed  ;  the  other  still  retaining  some  of  the 
shabby  finery  of  old  days,  but  pale  and  haggard, 
with  black  rings  under  her  eyes,  and  a  pathetic  air 
of  humiliation. 

"  Mrs.  Sinclair,"  she  hurriedly  began,  "  you  do 
not  know  me,  nor  the  like  of  me.  I've  got  no 
right  to  speak  to  you,  but  I  couldn't  help  it.  Oh  ! 
please  believe  me,  I  am  not  real  downright  bad. 
I'm  Sally  Johnson,  daughter  of  a  man  whom  they 
drove  out  of  the  town.  My  mother  died  when  I 
was  little,  and  I  never  had  a  show  ;  and  folks  think 
because  I  live  with  my  father,  and  he  makes  me 
know  the  crowd  he  travels  with,  that  I  must  be 
in  with  them,  and  be  of  their  sort.  I  never  had  a 
woman  speak  a  kind  word  to  me,  and  I've  had  so 
much  trouble  that  I'm  just  drove  wild,  and  like  to 
kill  myself  ;  and  then  I  was  at  the  station  when  you 
came  in,  and  I  saw  your  sweet  face  and  the  kind  look 
in  your  eyes,  and  it  came  in  my  heart  that  I'd 
speak  to  you  if  I  died  for  it."  She  leaned  eagerly 
forward,  her  hands  nervously  closing  on  the  back 


48  THE  DENVER  EXPRESS. 

of  a  chair.  "  I  suppose  your  husband  never  told 
you  of  me  ;  like  enough  he  never  knew  me  ;  but 
I'll  never  forget  him  as  long  as  I  live.  When  he 
was  here  before,  there  was  a  young  man  " — here  a 
faint  color  came  in  the  wan  cheeks — "  who  was 
fond  of  me,  and  I  thought  the  world  of  him,  and 
my  father  was  down  on  him,  and  the  men  that 
father  was  in  with  wanted  to  kill  him  ;  and  Mr. 
Sinclair  saved  his  life.  He's  gone  away,  and  I've 
waited  and  waited  for  him  to  come  back — and 
perhaps  I'll  never  see  him  again.  But  oh  !  dear 
lady,  I'll  never  forget  what  your  husband  did. 
He's  a  good  man,  and  he  deserves  the  love  of  a  dear 
good  woman  like  you,  and  if  I  dared,  I'd  pray  for 
you  both,  night  and  day." 

She  stopped  suddenly  and  sank  back  in  her  seat, 
pale  as  before,  and  as  if  frightened  by  her  own 
emotion.  Mrs.  Sinclair  had  listened  with  sympathy 
and  increasing  interest. 

"  My  poor  girl,"  she  said,  speaking  tenderly  (she 
had  a  lovely,  soft  voice)  and  with  slightly  height- 
ened color,  "  I  am  delighted  that  you  came  to  see 
me,  and  that  my  husband  was  able  to  help  you. 
Tell  me,  can  we  not  do  more  for  you  ?  I  do  not 
for  one  moment  believe  you  can  be  happy  with 
your  present  surroundings.  Can  we  not  assist  you 
to  leave  them  ?" 

The  girl  rose,  sadly  shaking  her  head.  "  I 
thank  you  for  your  words,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
suppose  I'll  ever  see  you  again,  but  I'll  say,  God 
bless  you  !" 


THE   DENVER   EXPRESS.  49 

She  caught  Mrs.  Sinclair's  hand,  pressed  it  to 
her  lips,  and  was  gone. 

Sinclair  found  his  wife  very  thoughtful  when  he 
came  home,  and  he  listened  with  much  interest  to 
her  story 

"  Poor  girl  !"  said  he  ;  "  Foster  is  the  man  to 
help  her.  I  wonder  where  he  is  ?  I  must  inquire 
about  him." 

The  next  day  they  proceeded  on  their  way  to  San 
Francisco,  and  matters  drifted  on  at  Barker's  much 
as  before.  Johnson  had,  after  an  absence  of  some 
months,  come  back  and  lived  without  molestation, 
amid  the  shifting  population.  Now  and  then,  too, 
some  of  the  older  residents  fancied  they  recog- 
nized, under  slouched  sombreros,  the  faces  of 
some  of  his  former  "  crowd  "  about  the  "  Ranch- 
man's Home,"  as  his  gaudy  saloon  was 
called. 

Late  on  the  very  evening  on  which  this  story 
opens,  and  they  had  been  "making  up"  the 
Denver  Express  in  the  train-house  on  the  Missouri, 
"  Jim  "  Watkins,  agent  and  telegrapher  at  Barker's, 
was  sitting  in  his  little  office,  communicating  with 
the  station  rooms  by  the  ticket  window.  Jim  was 
a  cool,  silent,  efficient  man,  and  not  much  given  to 
talk  about  such  episodes  in  his  past  life  as  the 
"  wiping  out  "  by  Indians  of  the  construction  party 
to  which  he  belonged,  and  his  own  rescue  by  the 
scouts.  He  was  smoking  an  old  and  favorite  pipe, 
and  talking  with  one  of  "  the  boys  "  whose  head 
appeared  at  the  wicket.  On  a  seat  in  the  station 


50  THE   DENVER   EXPRESS. 

sat  a  woman  in  a  black  dress  and  veil,  apparently 
waiting  for  a  train. 

"  Got  a  heap  of  letters  and  telegrams  there,  ain't 
year,  Jim  ?"  remarked  the  man  at  the  window. 

"Yes,"  replied  Jim;  "they're  for  Engineer 
Sinclair,  to  be  delivered  to  him  when  he  passes 
through  here.  He  left  on  No.  17,  to-night."  The 
inquirer  did  not  notice  the  sharp  start  of  the 
woman  near  him. 

"  Is  that  good-lookin'  wife  of  his'n  a  comin'  with 
him  ?"  asked  he. 

"  Yes,  there's  letters  for  her,  too." 

"  Well,  good-night,  Jim.  See  yer  later,"  and 
he  went  out.  The  woman  suddenly  rose  and  ran 
to  the  window. 

"  Mr  Watkins,"  cried  she,  "can  I  see  you  for  a 
few  moments,  where  no  one  can  interrupt  us  ?  It's 
a  matter  of  life  and  death."  She  clutched  the  sill 
with  her  thin  hands,  and  her  voice  trembled. 
Watkins  recognized  Sally  Johnson  in  a  moment. 
He  unbolted  a  door,  motioned  her  to  enter,  closed 
and  again  bolted  it,  and  also  closed  the  ticket 
window.  Then  he  pointed  to  a  chair,  and  the  girl 
sat  down  and  leaned  eagerly  forward. 

"  If  they  knew  I  was  here,"  she  said  in  a  hoarse 
whisper,  "  my  life  wouldn't  be  safe  five  minutes. 
I  was  waiting  to  tell  you  a  terrible  story,  and  then 
I  heard  who  was  on  the  train  due  here  to-morrow 
night.  Mr.  Watkins,  don't,  for  God's  sake,  ask 
me  how  I  found  out,  but  I  hope  to  die  if  I  ain't 
telling  you  the  living  truth  !  They're  going  to 


THE   DENVER  EXPRESS.  51 

wreck  that  train— No.  17 — at  Dead  Man's  Crossing, 
fifteen  miles  east,  and  rob  the  passengers  and  the 
express  car.  It's  the  worst  gang  in  the  country, 
Perry's.  They're  going  to  throw  the  train  off  the 
track,  the  passengers  will  be  maimed  and  killed, 
— and  Mr.  Sinclair  and  his  wife  on  the  cars  !  Oh  ! 
My  God  !  Mr  Watkins,  send  them  warning  !" 

She  stood  upright,  her  face  deadly  pale,  her 
hands  clasped.  Watkins  walked  deliberately  to 
the  railroad  map  which  hung  on  the  wall  and 
scanned  it.  Then  he  resumed  his  seat,  laid  his 
pipe  down,  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  girl's  face,  and 
began  to  question  her.  At  the  same  time  his  right 
hand,  with  which  he  had  held  the  pipe,  found  its 
way  to  the  telegraph  key.  None  but  an  expert 
could  have  distinguished  any  change  in  the  clicking 
of  the  instrument,  which  had  been  almost  in- 
cessant ;  but  Watkins  had  "  called  "  the  head 
office  on  the  Missouri.  In  two  minutes  the 
"  sounder  "  rattled  out  "  All  right!  What  is  it?" 

Watkins  went  on  with  his  questions,  his  eyes  still 
fixed  on  the  poor  girl's  face,  and  all  the  time  his 
fingers,  as  it  were,  playing  with  the  key.  If  he 
were  imperturbable,  so  was  not  a  man  sitting  at  a 
receiving  instrument  nearly  five  hundred  miles 
away.  He  had  "  taken  "  but  a  few  words  when  he 
jumped  from  his  chair  and  cried  : 

"  Shut  that  door,  and  call  the  superintendent  and 
be  quick  !  Charley,  brace  up — lively — and  come 
and  write  this  out  !"  With  his  wonderful  electric 
pen,  the  handle  several  hundred  of  miles  long, 


$2  THE   DENVER   EXPRESS. 

Watkins,   unknown  to  his  interlocutor,   was  print- 
ing in  the  Morse  alphabet  this  startling  message  : 

"  Inform'n  rec'd.  Perry  gang  going  to  throw  No.  17  off 
track  near— xth  mile-post,  this  division,  about  nine  to-morrow 
(Thursday)  night,  kill  passengers,  and  rob  express  and  mail. 
Am  alone  here.  No  chance  to  verify  story,  but  believe  it  to  be 
on  square.  Better  make  arrangements  from  your  end  to  block 
game.  No  Sheriff  here  now.  Answer." 

The  superintendent,  responding  to  the  hasty 
summons,  heard  the  message  before  the  clerk  had 
time  to  write  it  out.  His  lips  were  closely  com- 
pressed as  he  put  his  own  hand  on  the  key  and 
sent  these  laconic  sentences:  "  O.  K.  Keep  per- 
fectly dark.  Will  manage  from  this  end. ' ' 

Watkins,  at  Barker's,  rose  from  his  seat,  opened 
the  door  a  little  way,  saw  that  the  station  was 
empty,  and  then  said  to  the  girl,  brusquely,  but 
kindly  : 

"  Sally,  you've  done  the  square  thing,  and  saved 
that  train.  I'll  take  care  that  you  don't  suffer  and 
that  you  get  well  paid.  Now  come  home  with  me, 
and  my  wife  will  look  out  for  you." 

"  Oh  !  no,"  cried  the  girl,  shrinking  back,  "  I 
must  run  away.  You're  mighty  kind,  but  I  daren't 
go  with  you."  Detecting  a  shade  of  doubt  in  his 
eye,  she  added  :  "  Don't  be  afeared  ;  I'll  die  before 
they'll  know  I've  given  them  away  to  you  !"  and 
she  disappeared  in  the  darkness. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  wire,  the  superintendent 
had  quietly  impressed  secrecy  on  his  operator  and 


THE  DENVER  EXPRESS.  53 

clerk,  ordered  his  fast  mare  harnessed,  and  gone 
to  his  private  office. 

"  Read  that  !"  said  he  to  his  secretary.  "  It 
was  about  time  for  some  trouble  of  this  kind,  and 
now  I'm  going  to  let  Uncle  Sam  take  care  of  his 
mails.  If  I  don't  get  to  the  reservation  before  the 
General's  turned  in,  I  shall  have  to  wake  him  up. 
Wait  for  me,  please." 

They  gray  mare  made  the  six  miles  to  the 
military  reservation  in  just  half  an  hour.  The 
General  was  smoking  his  last  cigar,  and  was  alert 
in  an  instant  ;  and  before  the  superintendent  had 
finished  the  jorum  of  "  hot  Scotch  "  hospitably 
tendered,  the  orders  had  gone  by  wire  to  the  com- 
manding officer  at  Fort ,  some  distance  east  of 

Barker's,  and  been  duly  acknowledged. 

Returning  to  the  station,  the  superintendent  re- 
marked to  the  waiting  secretary  : 

"  The  General's  all  right.  Of  course  we  can't 
tell  that  this  is  not  a  sell  ;  but  if  those  Perry 
hounds  mean  business  they'll  get  all  the  fight  they 
want  ;  and  if  they've  got  any  souls— which  I 
doubt — may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  them  !" 

He  prepared  several  despatches,  two  of  which 
were  as  follows  : 

"MR.  HENRY  SINCLAIR: 

"  On  No.  17,  Pawnee  Junction  : 

This  telegram  your  authority  to  take  charge  of  Tain  on  which 
you  are,  and  demand  obedience  of  all  officials  and  trainmen  on 
road.  Please  do  so,  and  act  in  accordance  with  information 
wired  station  agent  at  Pawnee  Junction." 


54  THE  DENVER  EXPRESS. 

To  the  Station  Agent  • 

"  Reported  Perry  gang  will  try  wreck  and  rob  No.  17  near — 
xth  mile-post.  Denver  Division,  about  nine  Thursday  night. 

Troops  will  await  train  at  Fort .     Car  ordered  ready  for 

them.     Keep   everything  secret,   and   act  in  accordance   with 
orders  of  Mr.  Sinclair." 

"  It's  worth  about  ten  thousand  dollars,"  sen- 
tentiously  remarked  he,  "  that  Sinclair's  on  that 
train.  He's  got  both  sand  and  brains.  Good- 
night," and  he  went  to  bed  and  slept  the  sleep  of 
the  just. 


III. 

The  sun  never  shone  more  brightly  and  the  air 
was  never  more  clear  and  bracing  than  when  Sin- 
clair helped  his  wife  off  the  train  at  Pawnee  Junc- 
tion. The  station-master's  face  fell  as  he  saw  the 
lady,  but  he  saluted  the  engineer  with  as  easy  an  air 
as  he  could  assume,  and  watched  for  an  opportun- 
ity to  speak  to  him  alone.  Sinclair  read  the  de- 
spatches with  an  unmoved  countenance,  and  after 
a  few  minutes'  reflection  simply  said  :  "  All  right. 
Be  sure  to  keep  the  matter  perfectly  quiet."  At 
breakfast  he  was  distrait— -so  much  so  that  his  wife 
asked  him  what  was  the  matter,  Taking  her  aside, 
he  at  once  showed  her  the  telegrams. 


THE  DENVER  EXPRESS.  55 

"You  see  my  duty,"  he  said.  "My  only 
thought  is  about  you,  my  dear  child.  Will  you 
stay  here  ?" 

She  simply  replied,  looking  into  his  face  without 
a  tremor  : 

"My  place  is  with  you."  Then  the  conductor 
called  "All  aboard,"  and  the  train  once  more 
started. 

Sinclair  asked  Foster  to  join  him  in  the  smoking- 
compartment  and  tell  him  the  promised  story, 
which  the  latter  did.  His  rescue  at  Barker's,  he 
frankly  and  gratefully  said,  had  been  the  turning 
point  in  his  life.  In  brief,  he  had  "sworn-off" 
from  gambling  and  drinking,  had  found  honest 
employment,  and  was  doing  well. 

"  I've  two  things  to  do  now,  Major,"  he  added  ; 
"  first,  I  must  show  my  gratitude,  to  you  ;  and 
next — "  he  hesitated  a  little — "  I  want  to  find  that 
poor  girl  that  I  left  behind  at  Barker's.  She  was 
engaged  to  marry  me,  and  when  I  came  to  think 
of  it,  and  what  a  life  I'd  have  made  her  lead,  I 
hadn't  the  heart  till  now  to  look  for  her  ;  but, 
seeing  I'm  on  the  right  track,  I'm  going  to  find 
her,  and  get  her  to  come  with  me.  Her  father's 

a old  scoundrel,  but  that  ain't  her  fault,  and  I 

ain't  going  to  marry  him." 

"Foster,"  quietly  asked  Sinclair,  "  do  you  know 
the  Perry  gang  ?" 

The  man's  brow  darkened. 

"  Know  them  ?"  said  he.  "  I  know  them  much 
too  well.  Perry  is  as  ungodly  a  cutthroat  as  ever 


56  THE  DENVER  EXPRESS. 

killed  an  emigrant  in  cold  blood,  and  he's  got  in 
his  gang  nearly  all  those  hounds  that  tried  to  hang 
me.  Why  do  you  ask,  Major  ?" 

Sinclair  handed  him  the  despatches.  "  You  are 
the  only  man  on  the  train  to  whom  I  have  shown 
them,"  said  he. 

Foster  read  them  slowly,  his  eyes  lighting  up  as 
he  did  so.  "  Looks  as  if  it  was  true,"  said  he. 
"  Let  me  see  !  Fort .  Yes,  that's  the  — th  in- 
fantry. Two  of  their  boys  were  killed  at  Sidney 
last  summer  by  some  of  the  same  gang,  and  the 
regiment's  sworn  vengeance.  Major,  if  this  story's 
on  the  square,  that  crowd's  goose  is  cooked,  and  don't 
you  forget  it !  I  say,  you  must  give  me  a  hand  in." 

"  Foster,"  said  Sinclair,  "  I  am  going  to  put 
responsibility  on  your  shoulders.  I  have  no  doubt 
that,  if  we  be  attacked,  the  soldiers  will  dispose 
of  the  gang  ;  but  I  must  take  all  possible  precau- 
tions for  the  safety  of  the  passengers.  We  must 
not  alarm  them.  They  can  be  made  to  think  that 
the  troops  are  going  on  a  scout,  and  only  a  certain 
number  of  resolute  men  need  be  told  of  what  we 
expect.  Can  you,  late  this  afternoon,  go  through 
the  cars,  and  pick  them  out  ?  I  will  then  put  you 
in  charge  of  the  passenger  cars,  and  you  can  post 
your  men  on  the  platforms  to  act  in  case  of  need. 
My  place  will  be  ahead." 

"  Major,  you  can  depend  on  me,"  was  Foster's 
reply.  "  I'll  go  through  the  train  and  have  my  eye 
on  some  boys  of  the  right  sort,  and  that's  got  their 
shooting-irons  with  them." 


THE   DENVER  EXPRESS.  57 

Through  the  hours  of  that  day  on  rolled  the  train, 
still  over  the  crisp  buffalo  grass,  across  the  well- 
worn  buffalo  trails,  past  the  prairie-dog  villages. 
The  passengers  chatted,  dozed,  played  cards,  read, 
all  unconscious,  with  the  exception  of  three,  of  the 
coming  conflict  between  the  good  and  the  evil 
forces  bearing  on  their  fate  ;  of  the  fell  preparations 
making  for  their  disaster  ;  of  the  grim  preparations 
making  to  avert  such  disaster  ;  of  all  of  which  the 
little  wires  alongside  of  them  had  been  talking  back 
and  forth.  Watkins  had  telegraphed  that  he  still 
saw  no  reason  to  doubt  the  good  faith  of  his  warn- 
ing, and  Sinclair  had  reported  his  receipt  of 
authority  and  his  acceptance  thereof.  Meanwhile, 
also,  there  had  been  set  in  motion  a  measure  of 
that  power  to  which  appeal  is  so  reluctantly  made 

in  time  of  peace.     At  Fort ,  a  lonely  post  on 

the  plains,  the  orders  had  that  morning  been  issued 
for  twenty  men  under  Lieutenant  Halsey  to  parade 
at  4  P.M.,  with  overcoats,  two  days'  rations,  and 
ball  cartridges  ;  also  for  Assistant  Surgeon  Kesler 
to  report  for  duty  with  the  party.  Orders  as  to 
destination  were  communicated  direct  to  the  lieu- 
tenant from  the  post  commander,  and  on  the 
minute  the  little  column  moved,  taking  the  road  to 
the  station.  The  regiment  from  which  it  came 
had  been  in  active  service  among  the  Indians  on 
the  frontier  for  a  long  time,  and  the  officers  and 
men  were  tried  and  seasoned  fighters.  Lieutenant 
Halsey  had  been  well  known  at  the  West"  Point 
balls  as  the  "leader  of  the  german."  From  the 


58  THE  DENVER  EXPRESS. 

last  of  these  balls  he  had  gone  straight  to  the  field, 
and  three  years  had  given  him  an  enviable  reputa- 
tion for  sang  froid  and  determined  bravery.  He 
looked  every  inch  the  soldier  as  he  walked  along 
the  trail,  his  cloak  thrown  back  and  his  sword 
tucked  under  his  arm.  The  doctor,  who  carried  a 
Modoc  bullet  in  some  inaccessible  part  of  his 
scarred  body,  growled  good-naturedly  at  the  need 
of  walking,  and  the  men,  enveloped  in  their  army- 
blue  overcoats,  marched  easily  by  fours.  Reaching 
the  station,  the  lieutenant  called  the  agent  aside, 
and  with  him  inspected,  on  a  siding,  a  long  plat- 
form cr  on  which  benches  had  been  placed  and 
secur  ...  Then  he  took  his  seat  in  the  station  and 
qu*  ay  waited,  occasionally  twisting  his  long 
blond  mustache.  The  doctor  took  a  cigar  with 
the  agent,  and  the  men  walked  about  or  sat  on  the 
edge  of  the  platform.  One  of  them,  who  obtained 
a  surreptitious  glance  at  his  silent  commander,  told 
his  companions  that  there  was  trouble  ahead  for 
somebody. 

"  That's  just  the  way  the  leftenant  looked,  boys/' 
said  he,  "  when  we  was  laying  for  them  Apaches 
that  raided  Jones's  Ranch  and  killed  the  women 
and  little  children." 

In  a  short  time  the  officer  looked  at  his  watch, 
formed  his  men,  and  directed  them  to  take  their 
places  on  the  seats  of  the  car.  They  had  hardly 
done  so,  when  the  whistle  of  the  approaching  train 
was  heard.  When  it  came  up,  the  conductor,  who 
had  his  instructions  from  Sinclair,  had  the  engine 


THE   DENVER  EXPRESS.  59 

detached  and  backed  on  the  siding  for  the  soldiers' 
car,  which  thus  came  between  it  and  the  foremost 
baggage-car^wheri  the  train  was  again  made  up. 
As  arranged,  it  was  announced  that  the  troops 
were  to  be  taken  a  certain  distance  to  join  a  scout- 
ing party,  and  the  curiosity  of  the  passengers  was 
but  slightly  excited.  The  soldiers  sat  quietly  in 
their  seats,  their  repeating  rifles  held  between  their 
knees,  and  the  officer  in  front.  Sinclair  joined  the 
latter,  and  had  a  few  words  with  him  as  the  train 
moved  on.  A  little  later,  when  the  stars  were 
shining  brightly  overhead,  they  passed  into  the 
express-car,  and  sent  for  the  conductor  and  other 
trainmen,  and  for  Foster.  In  a  few  words  Sinclair 
explained  the  position  of  affairs.  His  statement 
was  received  with  perfect  coolness,  and  the  men 
only  asked  what  they  were  to  do. 

"  I  hope,  boys,"  said  Sinclair,  "  that  we  are  going 
to  put  this  gang  to-night  where  they  will  make 
no  more  trouble.  Lieutenant  Halsey  will  bear  the 
brunt  of  the  fight,  and  it  only  remains  for  you  to 
stand  by  the  interests  committed  to  your  care. 
Mr.  Express  Agent,  what  help  do  you  want  ?" 
The  person  addressed,  a  good-natured  giant, 
girded  with  a  cartridge  belt,  smiled  as  he  re- 
plied : 

"  Well,  sir,  I'm  wearing  a  watch  which  the  com- 
pany gave  me  for  standing  off  the  James  gang  in 
Missouri  for  half  an  hour,  when  we  hadn't  the 
ghost  of  a  soldier  about.  I'll  take  the  contract, 
and  welcome,  to  hold  this  fort  alone." 


60  THE  DENVER  EXPRESS. 

"Very  well,"  said  Sinclair.  "Foster,  what 
progress  have  you  made  ?" 

"  Major,  I've  got  ten  or  fifteen  as  good  men  as 
ever  drew  a  bead,  and  just  red-hot  for  a  fight." 

"  That  will  do  very  well.  Conductor,  give  the 
trainmen  the  rifles  from  the  baggage-car  and  let 
them  act  under  Mr.  Foster.  Now,  boys,  I  am  sure 
you  will  do  your  duty.  That  is  all." 

From  the  next  station  Sinclair  telegraphed  "  All 
ready  "  to  the  superintendent,  who  was  pacing  his 
office  in  much  suspense.  Then  he  said  a  few  words 
to  his  brave  but  anxious  wife,  and  walked  to  the 
rear  platform.  On  it  were  several  armed  men,  who 
bade  him  good-evening,  and  asked  "  when  the  fun 
was  going  to  begin."  Walking  through  the  train, 
he  found  each  platform  similarly  occupied,  and 
Foster  going  from  one  to  the  other.  The  latter 
whispered  as  he  passed  him  : 

"  Major,  I  found  Arizona  Joe,  the  scout,  in  the 
smokin'-car,  and  he's  on  the  front  platform.  That 
lets  me  out,  and  although  I  know  as  well  as  you 
that  there  ain't  any  danger  about  that  rear  sleeper 
where  the  madam  is,  I  ain't  a-going  to  be  far  off 
from  her."  Sinclair  shook  him  by  the  hand  ;  then 
he  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  half-past  eight. 
He  passed  throught  the  baggage  and  express  cars, 
finding  in  the  latter  the  agent  sitting  behind  his 
safe,  on  which  lay  two  large  revolvers  On  the 
platform-car  he  found  the  soldiers  and  their  com- 
mander, sitting  silent  and  unconcerned  as  before. 
When  Sinclair  reached  the  latter  and  nodded,  he 


THE   DENVER  EXPRESS.  6t 

rose  and   faced   the  men,    and   his  fine  voice  was 
clearly  heard  above  the  rattle  of  the  train. 

"Company,  'ten//'^/"  The  soldiers  straight- 
ened themselves  in  a  second. 

"  With  ball  cartridge,  load!"  It  was  done  with 
the  precision  of  a  machine.  Then  the  lieutenant 
spoke,  in  the  same  clear,  crisp  tones  that  the  troops 
had  heard  in  more  than  one  fierce  battle. 

"  Men,"  said  he,  "  in  a  few  minutes  the  Perry 
gang,  which  you  will  remember,  are  going  to  try 
to  run  this  train  off  the  track,  wound  and  kill  the 
passengers,  and  rob  the  cars  and  the  United  States 
mail.  It  is  our  business  to  prevent  them.  Ser- 
geant Wilson"  (a  gray-bearded  non-commissioned 
officer  stood  up  and  saluted),  "  I  am  going  on  the 
engine.  See  that  my  orders  are  repeated.  Now, 
men,  aim  low,  and  don't  waste  any  shots."  He 
and  Sinclair  climbed  over  the  tender  and  spoke  to 
the  engine-driver. 

"How  are  the  air-brakes  working?"  asked 
Sinclair. 

"  First-rate." 

"  Then,  if  you  slow  down  now,  you  could  stop 
the  train  in  a  third  of  her  length,  couldn't  you  ?" 

* '  Easy,  if  you  don't  mind  being  shaken  up  a  bit. ' ' 

"  That  is  good.  How  is  the  country  about  the 
— xth  mile-post  ?" 

"  Dead  level,  and  smooth." 

"  Good  again.  Now,  Lieutenant  Halsey,  this  is 
a  splendid  head-light,  and  we  can  see  a  long  way 
with  my  night  glass.  I  will  have  a — " 


62  THE   DENVER   EXPRESS. 

" — 2d  mile-post  just  passed/'  interrupted  the 
engine-driver. 

"  Only  one  more  to  pass,  then,  before  we  ought 
to  strike  them.  Now,  lieutenant,  I  undertake  to 
stop  the  train  within  a  very  short  distance  of  the 
gang.  They  will  be  on  both  sides  of  the  track,  no 
doubt  ;  and  the  ground,  as  you  hear,  is  quite  level. 
You  will  best  know  what  to  do." 

The  officer  stepped  back.  "  Sergeant,"  called 
he,  "  do  you  hear  me  plainly  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

<c  Have  the  men  fix  bayonets.  When  the  train 
stops,  and  I  wave  my  sword,  let  half  jump  off  each 
side,  run  up  quickly,  and  form  line  abreast  of  the 
engine — not  ahead." 

"Jack,"  said  Sinclair  to  the  engine-driver,  "is 
your  hand  steady?"  The  man  held  it  up  with  a 
smile.  "  Good.  Now,  stand  by  your  throttle  and 
your  air-brake.  Lieutenant,  better  warn  the  men 
to  hold  on  tight,  and  tell  the  sergeant  to  pass  the 
word  to  the  boys  on  the  platforms,  or  they  will  be 
knocked  off  by  the  sudden  stop.  Now  for  a  look 
ahead  !"  and  he  brought  the  binocular  to  his  eyes. 

The  great  parabolic  head-light  illuminated  the 
track  a  long  way  in  advance,  all  behind  it  being  of 
course  in  darkness.  Suddenly  Sinclair  cried  out  : 

"  The  fools  have  a  light  there,  as  I  am  a  living 
man  ;  and  there  is  a  little  red  one  near  us.  What 
can  that  be  ?  All  ready,  Jack  !  By  heavens  !  they 
have  taken  up  two  rails.  Now,  hold  on,  all!  STOP 
HER  !  !" 


THE  DENVER  EXPRESS.  63 

The  engine-driver  shut  his  throttle-valve  with  a 
jerk.  Then,  holding  hard  by  it,  he  sharply  turned 
a  brass  handle.  There  was  a  fearful  jolt — a  grating 
— and  the  train's  way  was  checked.  The  lieuten- 
ant, standing  sidewise,  had  drawn  his  sword.  He 
waved  it,  and  almost  before  he  could  get  off  the 
enginje,  the  soldiers  were  up  and  forming,  still  in 
shadow,  while  the  bright  light  was  thrown  on  a 
body  of  men  ahead. 

"  Surrender,  or  you  are  dead  men  !"  roared  the 
officer.  Curses  and  several  shots  were  the  reply. 
Then  came  the  orders,  quick  and  sharp  : 

"Forward!  Close  up  I  Double-quick  !  Halt 7  FIRE!" 

*  *  *  It  was  speedily  over.  Left  on  the  car 
with  the  men,  the  old  sergeant  had  said  : 

"Boys,  you  hear.  It's  that-  -Perry  gang. 
Now,  don't  forget  Larry  and  Charley  that  they 
murdered  last  year,"  and  there  had  come  from  the 
soldiers  a  sort  of  fierce,  subdued  growl '.  The  volley 
was  followed  by  a  bayonet  charge,  and  it  required 
all  the  officer's  authority  to  save  the  lives  even  of 
those  who  "  threw  up  their  hands."  Large  as  the 
gang  was  (outnumbering  the  troops),  well  armed 
and  desperate  as  they  were,  every  one  was  dead, 
wounded,  or  a  prisoner  when  the  men  who  guarded 
the  train  platforms  ran  up.  The  surgeon,  with  pro- 
fessional coolness,  walked  up  to  the  robbers,  his 
instrument  case  under  his  arm. 

"  Not  much  for  me  to  do  here,  Lieutenant,"  said 
he.  "  That  practice  for  Creedmoor  is  telling  on 
the  shooting.  Good  thing  for  the  gang,  too. 


64  THE  DENVER  EXPRESS. 

Bullets  are  better  than  rope,  and  a  Colorado  jury 
will  give  them  plenty  of  that." 

Sinclair  had  sent  a  man  to  tell  his  wife  that  all 
was  over.  Then  he  ordered  a  fire  lighted,  and  the 
rails  relaid.  The  flames  lit  a  strange  scene  as  the 
passengers  flocked  up.  The  lieutenant  posted  men 
to  keep  them  back. 

"  Is  there  a  telegraph  station  not  far  ahead, 
Sinclair?"  asked  he.  "Yes?  All  right."  He 
drew  a  small  pad  from  his  pocket,  and  wrote  a  des- 
patch to  the  post  commander. 

"  Be  good  enough  to  send  that  for  me,"  said  he, 
"  and  leave  orders  at  Barker's  for  the  night  express 
eastward  to  stop  for  us,  and  to  bring  a  posse  to 
take  care  of  the  wounded  and  prisoners.  And 
now,  my  dear  Sinclair,  I  suggest  that  you  get  the 
passengers  into  the  cars,  and  go  on  as  soon  as 
those  rails  are  spiked.  When  they  realize  the  situ- 
ation, some  of  them  will  feel  precious  ugly,  and 
you  know  we  can't  have  any  lynching." 

Sinclair  glanced  at  the  rails  and  gave  the  word 
at  once  to  the  conductor  and  brakemen,  who  began 
vociferating,  "  All  aboard  !"  Just  then  Foster 
appeared,  an  expression  of  intense  satisfaction 
showing  clearly  on  his  face,  in  the  firelight. 

"  Major,"  said  he,  "  I  didn't  use  to  take  much 
stock  in  special  Providence,  or  things  being 
ordered  ;  but  I'm  darned  if  I  don't  believe  in  them 
from  this  day.  I  was  bound  to  stay  where  you  put 
me,  but  I  was  uneasy,  and  wild  to  be  in  the  scrim- 
mage ;  and,  if  I  had  been  there,  I  wouldn't  have 


THE  DENVER  EXPRESS.  65 

taken  notice  of  a  little  red  light  that  wasn't  much 
behind  the  rear  platform  when  we  stopped.  When 
I  saw  there  was  no  danger  there,  I  ran  back,  and 
what  do  you  think  I  found  ?  There  was  a  woman, 
in  a  dead  faint,  and  just  clutching  a  lantern  that 
she  had  tied  up  in  a  red  scarf,  poor  little  thing  ! 
And,  Major,  it  was  Sally  !  It  was  the  little  girl 
that  loved  me  out  at  Barker's,  and  has  loved  me 
and  waited  for  me  ever  since  !  And  when  she 
came  to,  and  knew  me,  she  was  so  glad  she  'most 
fainted  away  again  ;  and  she  let  on  as  it  was  her 
that  gave  away  the  job.  And  I  took  her  into  the 
sleeper,  and  the  madam,  God  bless  her  ! — she  knew 
Sally  before  and  was  good  to  her — she  took  care  of 
her,  and  is  cheering  her  up.  And  now,  Major,  I'm 
going  to  take  her  straight  to  Denver,  and  send  for 
a  parson  and  get  her  married  to  me,  and  she'll 
brace  up,  sure  pop." 

The  whistle  sounded,  and  the  train  started. 
From  the  window  of  the  "  sleeper  "  Sinclair  and 
his  wife  took  their  last  look  at  the  weird  scene. 
The  lieutenant,  standing  at  the  side  of  the  track, 
wrapped  in  his  cloak,  caught  a  glimpse  of  Mrs 
Sinclair's  pretty  face,  and  returned  her  bow. 
Then,  as  the  car  passed  out  of  sight,  he  tugged  at 
his  mustache  and  hummed  : 
"  Why,  boys,  why, 

Should  we  be  melancholy,  boys, 
Whose  business  'tis  to  die?" 

In  less  than  an  hour,   telegrams  having  in  the 
mean  time  been  sent  in  both  directions,  the  train 


66  THE  DENVER  EXPRESS. 

ran  alongside  the  platform  at  Barker's  ;  and 
Watkins,  inperturbable  as  usual,  met  Sinclair,  and 
gave  him  his  letters. 

"  Perry  gang  wiped  out,  I  hear,  Major,"  said  he. 
"  Good  thing  for  the  country.  That's  a  lesson 
the  '  toughs  '  in  these  parts  won't  forget  for  a  long 
time.  Plucky  girl  that  give  'em  away,  wasn't  she. 
Hope  she's  all  right/' 

"  She  is  all  right,"  said  Sinclair,  with  a  smile. 

"  Glad  of  that.  By-the-way,  that  father  of  her'n 
passed  in  his  checks  to-night.  He'd  got  one  warn- 
ing from  the  Vigilantes,  and  yesterday  they  found 
out  he  was  in  with  this  gang,  and  they  was  a-going 
for  him  ;  but  when  the  telegram  come,  he  put  a 
pistol  to  his  head  and  saved  them  all  trouble. 
Good  riddance  to  everybody,  I  say.  The  sheriff's 
here  now,  and  is  going  east  on  the  next  train  to 
get  them  fellows.  He's  got  a  big  posse  together, 
and  L  wouldn't  wonder  if  they  was  hard  to  hold 
in,  after  the  '  boys  in  blue  '  is  gone." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  train  was  off,  with  its 
living  freight — the  just  and  the  unjust,  the  re- 
formed and  the  rescued,  the  happy  and  the  anxious. 
With  many  of  the  passengers  the  episode  of  the 
night  was  already  a  thing  of  the  past.  Sinclair 
sat  by  the  side  of  his  wife,  to  whose  -cheeks  the 
color  had  all  come  back  ;  and  Sally  Johnson  lay 
in  her  berth,  faint  still,  but  able  to  give  an  occa- 
sional smile  to  Foster.  In  the  station  on  the  Mis- 
souri the  reporters  were  gathered  about  the  happy 
.superintendent,  smoking  his  cigars,  and  filling 


THE   DENVER   EXPRESS.  67 

their  note-books  with  items.  In  Denver,  their 
brethren  would  gladly  have  done  the  same,  but 
Watkins  failed  to  gratify  them.  He  was  a  man  of 
few  words.  When  the  train  had  gone,  and  a  friend 
remarked  : 

"  Hope  they'll  get  through  all  right,  now,"  he 
simply  said  : 

"  Yes,  likely.  Two  shots  don't  'most  always  go 
in  the  same  hole."  Then  he  went  to  the  telegraph 
instrument.  In  a  few  minutes  he  could  have  told 
a  story  as  wild  as  a  Norse  saga,  but  what  he  said, 
when  Denver  had  responded,  was  only — 

"  No.  17,  fifty- five  minutes  late.  " 


THE  MISFORTUNES 
OF  BRO'  THOMAS  WHEATLEY. 

BY  LINA  REDWOOD  FAIRFAX. 


HE  is  our  office-boy  and  messenger,  and,  my 
senior  tells  me,  has  been  employed  by  the 
firm  in  this  capacity  for  about  thirty  years.  He  is 
a  negro,  about  sixty  years  old,  rather  short  and 
stout,  with  a  mincing,  noiseless  gait,  broad  African 
features,  beautiful  teeth,  and  small,  round,  twink- 
ling eyes,  the  movements  of  which  are  accompanied 
by  little  abrupt,  sidewise  turns  of  the  head,  like  a 
bird.  His  manner  is  a  curious  mixture  of  deference 
and  self-importance,  his  voice  a  soft,  sibilant  whis- 
per, and  as  he  was  born  and  bred  in  Alexandria,  Vir- 
ginia, it  seems  almost  superfluous  to  add  that  he 
and  the  letter  "  r"  are  not  on  speaking  terms. 

He  has  a  prominent  characteristic,  which  always 
attracts  attention  at  first  sight.  This  is  the  shape 
of  his  head,  which  is  immensely  large  in  propor- 

***  ScribneSs  Monthly,  September,  1881. 


MISFORTUNES  OF  BRO    THOMAS  WllEATLEY.    69 

tion,  very  bald,  and  so  abundant  in  various  queer, 
knobby  excrescences  about  the  forehead  and  sides, 
and  so  unnaturally  long  and  level  on  top,  that  for 
some  time  after  I  made  his  acquaintance  I  could 
never  see  him  without  finding  myself  forming 
absurd  conjectures  as  to  whether  his  cranium  and 
the  hydrostatic  press  could  ever  have  become 
acquainted  at  some  early  period  of  his  life  ;  and  so 
strong  is  this  association  of  ideas  that,  even  now, 
his  sudden  appearance  invariably  suggests  to  me 
the  study  of  natural  philosophy.  Poor  fellow  ! 
his  chagrin  was  great  when  this  peculiar  conforma- 
tion of  his  skull  was  first  brought  to  his  notice. 
He  had  been  telling  me  for  some  time  past  of  the 
"  splendid  piccha  "  he  had  had  "  took,"  and  I  had 
been  promised  a  sight  of  it  just  as  soon  as  it  arrived 
from  the  photographer's.  I  confess  I  had  not  been 
sanguine  as  to  the  result,  although  I  knew  a  hand- 
some portrait  was  confidently  expected  by  the 
sitter.  One  morning  he  deposited  the  photograph 
before  me. 

"  Hello  !"  I  cried,  taking  it  in  my  hand  ;  "  here 
you  are,  hit  off  to  the  life." 

"Do*  say  that,  Mist'  Dunkin,  do'  say  hit,  seh," 
he  replied,  in  a  tone  of  deep  mortification.  Then, 
catching  a  glimpse  of  the  picture,  his  ire  broke 
forth  :  "  Nevvah  wuz  like  me  in  de  wueld,"  he 
cried,  in  an  elevated  key  ;  "  nevyah  wuz  ha'f  so 
ugly  ez  that.  I'm — I'm  a  bettah-lookin'  man, 
Mist'  Dunkin.  Why,  look  at  de  color  of  de  thing," 
contemptuously.  "  Cain'  tell  de  face  f'om  de  coat. 


70  MISFORTUNES  OF  BRO'  THOMAS  WHEATLEY. 

I  nevvah  set  up  to  be  what  you'd  call  faih-cum- 
plectid,  but  disha  things  iss  same  is  that  thaih  ink  ; 
jess  iss  same.  My  hade  do'  look  that  a  way,  neitha. 
Naw,  seh,  'taint  s'  bad  's  that." 

"Why,  Thomas,"  said  I,  "/  think  it  a  very 
good  likeness — the  complexion  is  a  little  dark,  to 
be  sure,  but  do  you  know  I  particularly  admire  the 
head.  Look  at  that  forehead  ;  any  one  can  see 
that  you  are  a  man  of  intellect.  I  tell  you  it  isn't 
every  one  who  can  boast  of  such  a  forehead." 

"  The — the  'mahk  you  make  'bout  me,  has  been 
made  'fo';  I  may  say,  has  been  made  quite  fre- 
quent— quite  frequent  ;  on'y  lass  Tuesd'y  fohtni't, 
Sistah  Ma'y  Ann  Jinkins — a  promnunt  membeh  of 
ouh  class  (that  is,  Asba'y  class,  meets  on  Gay 
Street),  Sistah  Ma'y  Ann  Jinkins,  she  ups  an'  sez, 
befo'  de  whole  class,  dat  she'd  puppose  de  motion, 
dat  Bro'  Thomas  Wheatley  wuz  'p'inted  fus' 
speakah  in  de  nex'  '  Jug-breakin'  an'  Jaymiah's 
Hamma,'  by  de  i-nanemous  vote  of  de  class.  I'm 
clah  to  say  I  wuz  'stonished  ;  but  ahta  class  wuz 
ovva,  Bro'  Moss  tole  me  de  'p'intment  wuz  made 
jes'  f'om  de  'peahunce  of  my  hade,  '  'Cause,'  he 
sez,  '  no  man  cain't  be  a  po'  speakah  with  sich  a 
fine  intellec'  which  we  see  expressed  in  de  hade 
of  Bro'  Thomas  Wheatley — but,  same  time,  I 
knowed  all  time  de  fus'  motion  come  f'om  Sistah 
Ma'y  Ann  Jinkins — she's  a  ve'y  good  friend  o' 
mine,  Sistah  Ma'y  Ann  Jinkins — thinks  a  sight  o' 
me  ;  I  'scohts  heh  to  class  ev'y  Tuesd'y — ev'y 
Tuesd'y,  sine  die." 


MISFORTUNES  OF  BRO'  THOMAS  WHEATLEY.   71 

"  You  do  ?  What  does  your  wife  have  to  say  to 
that?"  I  asked,  maliciously. 

He  stared  at  me  an  instant,  then  replied  : 
"  My  wife  ! — oh — oh,  Law  bless  yoh  soul,  seh, 
she  do*  keeh.  Bro'  'Dolphus  Beam,  he  sees  ahta 
heh  :  you  see,  seh,  she's  1-o-n-g  way  'moved  f'om 
Asba'y  class  ;  'twont  admit  none  but  fus'-class 
'speience-givvahs  in  Asba'y,  an'  my  wife  she 
wa'n't  nevvah  no  han'  to  talk  ;  haint  got  de  gif  of 
de  tongue  which  Saul,  suhname  Paul,  speaks  of  in 
de  Scripcheh — don't  possess  hit,  seh." 

"  She  must  be  a  very  nice  person  to  live  with,"  I 
remarked. 

"Well,  y-e-es,  seh,"  replied  Thomas,  after  re- 
flecting awhile.  "  I  hain't  got  nuth'n'  'g'in'  Ailse  ; 
she's  quite,  an'  ohdaly,  a  good  cook,  an'  laundriss, 
an'  she's  a  lady,*  an'  all  that,  but  sh'  ain't  not  to 
say  what  you'd  call  a  giftid  'oman." 

"  Like  Sister  Mary  Ann  Jinkins,  eh  ?" 

14  JZgg-zac'ly,  seh.  Mist'  Dunkin,  you  put  hit 
kehrec',  seh.  Ailse  hain't  possessed  with  none  of 
the  high  talence,  cain't  exhoht,  naw  sing  with 
fehveh,  naw  yit  lead  in  praieh  ;  heh  talence  is 
mos'ly  boun'  up  in  napkins — as  Scripcheh  say — 
mos'ly  boun'  up  in  napkins  ;  foh  I  do'  deny  she 
kin  do  up  all  kines  o'  table-linen,  she  kin  indeed. 
Naw,  seh,  I  cain't  say  I  got  nuth'n'  'g'in'  Ailse." 

He  was,  I  think,  the  worst  manager  of  finances 
that  I  have  ever  known.  He  cleaned  all  the  offices 

*  A  virtuous  woman. 


72    MISFORTUNES  OF  BRtf  THOMAS  WHEATLEY, 

in  our  building,  and  earned,  as  near  as  I  could 
estimate,  about  thirty-five  dollars  a  month.  Three 
of  his  four  children  were  self-supporting,  and  his 
wife  was  honest  and  industrious,  taking  in  wash- 
ing, and  getting  well  paid  for  her  work.  Yet,  he 
was  perpetually  in  debt,  and  his  wages  were  always 
overdrawn.  Whenever  I  came  into  the  office  after 
my  two-o'clock  lunch,  and  found  him  seated  on 
his  wooden  chair,  in  the  corner,  gazing  absently 
out  at  the  dingy  chimneys  opposite — apparently 
too  abstracted  to  observe  my  entrance,  I  knew  I 
had  only  to  go  to  my  desk  to  find,  placed  in  a  con- 
spicuous position  thereon,  a  very  small,  dirty  bit 
of  paper,  with  these  words  laboriously  inscribed 
upon  it  :  "  Mr.  Dunkin  Sir  cen  you  oblidge  me 
with  the  sum  of  three  dolers  an  a  half  [or  whatever 
the  sum  might  be]  an  deduc  thee  same  from  mi 
salry  i  em  in  grate  kneed  of  thee  same  yours  mos 
respecfull  thomas  wheatley." 

The  form  was  always  the  same,  my  name  in 
imposing  capitals  and  the  remainder  in  the  very 
smallest  letters  which  he  could  coax  his  stiff  old 
fingers  to  make,  and  all  written  on  the  tiniest  scrap 
of  writing-paper.  I  think  his  object  was  to 
impress  me  with  his  humiliation,  impecuniosity, 
and  general  low  condition,  because  as  soon  as  he 
received  the  money  —  which  he  always  did,  I  vow- 
ing to  myself  each  time  that  this  advance  should  be 
the  last,  and  as  regularly  breaking  my  vow— he 
would  tip-toe  carefully  to  the  mantel-piece,  get 
down  his  pen  and  ink,  borrow  my  sand-bottle,  and 


MISFORTUNES  OF  BRO*  THOMAS  WHEATLEY.    73 

proceed  to  indite  me  a  letter  of  acknowledgment. 
This  written,  he  would  present  it  with  a  sweeping 
bow,  and  then  retire  precipitately  to  his  corner, 
chuckling,  and  perspiring  profusely.  He  usually 
preferred  foolscap  for  these  documents,  and  the 
capitals  were  numerous  and  imposing.  Like  the 
others,  however,  they  were  invariably  word  for 
word  the  same,  and  were  couched  in  the  following 
terms  : 

"  MR.  DUNKIN 

"  SIR  I  have  Recieved  thee  Sum  of  Three  Dolers  an  a  half 
from  Your  hans  an  I  Recieve  thee  same  with  Joy  an  Grattetude. 
"  Yours  respecfull 

"THOMAS  WHEATLEY." 

I  said  his  applications  for  money  were  always 
granted.  I  must,  however,  make  an  exception, 
which,  after  all,  will  only  go  to  prove  the  rule. 
One  bright  morning  he  met  me  at  the  office-door, 
his  face  as  beaming  as  the  weather.  He  hardly 
waited  for  me  to  doff  my  overcoat  and  hat,  when 
he  announced  that  he  had  bought  a  second-hand 
parlor  organ  the  evening  before,  on  credit,  for 
seventy-five  dollars,  to  be  paid  in  instalments  of 
twelve  dollars  and  a  half  each.  He  had  been  very 
hard  up  for  a  month  past,  as  I  had  abundant  occa- 
sion to  know,  and  it  was  therefore  with  a  feeling 
rather  stronger  than  surprise,  that  I  received  the 
announcement  of  this  purchase. 

"  But  you  haven't  fifty  cents  toward  paying  for 
it.  And  what  on  earth  can  you  possibly  want  with 


74   MISFORTUNES  OF  BRO"  THOMAS  WHEATLEY. 

a  parlor  organ  ?  Can  you  play  ? — can  any  of  your 
family  play  ?" 

"  Well,  naw,  seh,"  scratching  his  head  reflec- 
tively. "  I  cain't  say  they  kin  not  to  say  play  " — 
as  if  they  were  all  taking  lessons,  and  expected  to 
become  proficient  at  some  not  far  distant  day. 
"  In  fac',  seh,  none  on  um  knows  a  wued  o'  music. 
I  didn't  mean,  seh,  I  didn't  'tend  the — the  instru- 
ment fu'  househol'  puhpasses — I — I  'tended  hit  as 
a  off'in'  to  ouh  Sabbath-school.  We — we  has  no 
instrument  at  present,  an' — " 

I  am  afraid  I  uttered  a  very  bad  word  at  this  junct- 
ure. Thomas  started,  and  retired  in  great  dis- 
comfiture, and  I  thought  I  had  made  an  end  of  the 
matter,  but  that  afternoon  I  found  the  small  scrap 
of  paper  on  my  desk — really,  I  think,  with  a  little 
practice,  Thomas  might  hope  to  rival  the  man  who 
goes  about  writing  the  Lord's  Prayer  in  the  space 
of  half  a  dollar.  My  name  was  in  larger  capitals, 
the  rest  in  smaller  letters,  than  usual,  and  I  was 
requested  "  to  oblidge  him  with  the  sum  of  twelve 
dolers  an'  a  half."  I  knew  then  that  the  first 
organ-instalment  was  due,  but  I  think  it  needless 
to  add,  his  application  was  refused.  About  a  week 
afterward,  I  learned  that  the  Sabbath-school  was 
again  without  a  musical  instrument,  the  organ 
having  been  pawned  for  twenty  dollars,  Thomas 
paying  ten  per  cent  a  month  on  the  money.  It 
was  so  with  everything  he  undertook.  Once  he 
gave  me  elaborate  warning  that  I  must  furnish 
myself  with  another  messenger  at  once,  as  he  was 


MISFORTUNES  OF  BR&  THOMAS  WHEATLEY.   75 

going  to  make  a  fortune  peddling  oranges  and 
apples.  Accordingly,  he  bought  a  barrel  (!)  of 
each  kind  of  fruit,  sold  half  at  reasonable  rates, 
and  then,  the  remainder  beginning  to  decay  on  his 
hands,  he  came  to  me,  offering  really  fine  Havana 
oranges  at  a  cent  apiece. 

"  I'm  driffin'  'em  off  et  coss — driffin'  'em  off  et 
coss,"  he  whispered,  speaking  rapidly,  and  waving 
his  hands  about,  oriental  fashion,  the  palms  turned 
outward  and  the  fingers  twirling  ;  this  peculiar 
gesture  seemed  intended  to  indicate  the  cheapness 
of  his  wares.  "  Dey  coss  me  mo'n  that  ;  heap 
mo',  but  I'm  faih  to  lose  um  all  now,  en  I'm  driffin' 
'em  off,  sine  die." 

After  that,  some  dozen  or  more  of  the  large 
wholesale  houses  engaged  him  to  furnish  their 
counting-rooms  with  lunch,  and  he  began  with 
brilliant  prospects.  He  brought  his  basket  around 
to  me  for  first  choice.  Everything  was  very  nice  ; 
a  clean  new  basket,  covered  with  a  white  cloth, 
wherein  lay  piles  of  neatly  arranged  packages  done 
up  in  letter-paper,  with  a  strange-looking  character 
inscribed  upon  each. 

"  What  do  these  letters  mean  ?"  I  asked,  taking 
up  one  of  the  packages,  and  trying  in  vain  to 
decipher  the  cabalistic  sign  upon  it. 

Thomas  chuckled. 

"  Oh,  that's  to  show  de  kine  of  san'wich  dey  is, 
Mist'  Dunkin.  You  see,  seh,  I  got  th'ee  kines — so 
I  put  'B'  on  de  beef,  'H'  on  de  hahm,  an'  I 
stahtid  to  put  4  H  '  on  de  hystehs.  too,  but  den  I 


76  MISFORTUNES  OF  BRO"  THOMAS  WHEATLEY. 

foun'  I  couldn't  tell  de  hystehs  f'om  de  hahmy  so  den 
I  put  '  H  I'  on  de  hystehs/' 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  said  I,  opening  one  of  the 
"  hysteh  "  packages.  It  was  very  good  ;  an  excel- 
lent French  roll,  well  spread  with  choice  butter, 
and  two  large,  nicely  fried  oysters  between.  I  ate 
it  speedily,  took  another,  and,  that  disposed  of, 
asked  the  price. 

44  Ten  cents,   seh." 

"  For  two  !" 

*4  Yes,  seh  ;  fi'  cents  'piece." 

44  Why,  Thomas,"  I  exclaimed,  "  you  mustn't  be- 
gin by  asking  five  cents  apiece  ;  you'll  ruin  your- 
self. These  things  are  worth  at  least  twice  as  much 
money.  Why,  I  pay  ten  cents  for  a  sandwich  at  an 
eating-house,  and  it  doesn't  begin  to  have  as  good 
materials  in  it  as  yours.  You  ought  to  ask  more." 

4'  Naw,  seh  ;  naw,  seh  ;  Mist'  Dunkin  ;  as'  less, 
an*  sell  mo' — that's  my  motteh,  I  have  all  dese 
yeah  clean  sole  out  'fo'  two  'clock — clean  sole  out 
'fo'  two  'clock." 

I  interrupted  him,  asking  the  cost  of  each  article, 
and  then  proving  to  him  by  calculation  that  he 
lost  money  on  each  sandwich  he  sold  at  five  cents. 
But  I  could  not  convince  him — he  received  the 
twenty-five  cents  which  I  insisted  on  paying  him 
with  many  expressions  of  gratitude,  but  he  left  me 
reiterating  his  belief  in  "  quick  sales  and  small 
profits."  4'  Be  back  yeah  clean  sole  out  by  two 
'clock,  sine  die,"  he  exclaimed,  brightly,  as  he 
departed. 


MISFORTUNES  OF  BRO*  THOMAS  WHEATLEY.    77 

This  venture  brought  him  six  dollars  in  debt  at 
the  expiration  of  a  fortnight,  and  after  that,  by 
my  advice,  he  abandoned  peddling,  condemning 
it  as  a  "  low-life  trade,"  and  agreeing  to  stick  to 
legitimate  business  for  the  future. 

One  of  his  famous  expressions,  the  most  formid- 
able rival  of  sine  die  (which,  as  the  reader  has  doubt- 
less discovered,  he  intended  as  an  elegant  synonym 
for  without  fail},  was  entirely  original — this  was 
"  Granny  to  Mash"  (I  spell  phonetically),  used  as 
an  exclamation,  and  only  employed  when  laboring 
under  great  mental  excitement. 

As  I  was  proceeding  homeward  one  evening,  I 
spied  him  standing  on  a  street  corner,  holding 
forth  to  a  select  assemblage  of  his  own  color,  who 
were  listening  to  him  with  an  appearance  of  the 
profoundest  respect.  His  back  was  toward  me,  and 
I  stopped  and  caught  his  words  without  attracting 
observation.  He  had  assumed  a  very  pompous, 
hortatory  manner,  and  I  could  well  believe  he 
held  a  prominent  position  in  Asbury  class.  "  Yes, 
gentlemun  ;  yes,"  he  was  saying,  c<  ez  Brotheh 
Jones  'mahks,  I  do  live  in  a  ve'y  .ra-peeiaw  at-mos- 
pheeh — suh-roundid  by  people  of  leahnin',  with 
books,  pens,  blottehs,  letteh-pess,  en  what  not,  ez 
common  ez  these  yeah  bricks  which  I  see  befo'  me. 
But  thaih  hain't  no  trueh  wued  then  ev'y  station 
has  its  hawdships,  gentlemun,  en  mine  ah  not 
exemp',  mine  ah  not  exemp'. 

"  Fus'ly,  thaih' s  the  'sponsebility.  W'y,  this 
yeah  ve'y  mawnin'  I  banked  nigh  on  to  a  thousan' 


78  MISFORTUNES  OF  BRO'  THOMAS  WHEATLEY. 

dollehs  fu'  de  young  boss.  En  w'en  I  tell  you  mo'n 
two  hundred  stamps  is  passed  my  mouth  this  yeah 
blessid  evenin',  't  will  give  you  some  slight  idee  of 
the  magnitude  of  the  duties  I  has  to  puffawn. 
W'y,  gentlemun,  I  is  drank  wateh,  an'  I  is  drank 
beeh,  but  my  mouth  hain't  got  back  hits  right 
moistuh  yit." 

The  day  of  the  2oth  of  July,  1877,  was  very  quiet. 
We  had  heard,  of  course,  of  the  "  strikes  "  all  over 
the  country,  and  the  morning  papers  brought 
tidings  of  the  trouble  with  the  Baltimore  and  Ohio 
railroad  employes  at  Martinsburg,  but  no  serious 
difficulty  was  apprehended  in  Baltimore. 

That  afternoon  I  was  detained  very  late  at  the 
office.  I  intended  beginning  a  three  weeks'  holi- 
day next  morning,  and  was  trying  to  get  before- 
hand with  my  work.  My  senior  was  out  of  town, 
and  Thomas  and  I  had  been  very  busy  since  three 
o'clock — I  writing,  he  copying  the  letters.  After 
five,  we  had  the  building  pretty  much  to  ourselves, 
and  a  little  after  half  past  five,  the  fire  alarm 
sounded.  The  City  Hall  bell  was  very  distinctly 
heard,  and  Thomas — who  had  finished  his  work  and 
was  waiting  to  take  some  papers  to  the  office  of 
the  Baltimore  and  Ohio  Railroad  for  me — took 
down  a  list  of  the  different  stations,  to  ascertain 
the  whereabouts  of  the  fire. 

"  i — 5,"  he  counted,  as  the  strokes  fell  ;  "  that 
makes  fifteen,  and  that  is,"  passing  his  finger 
slowly  down  the  card,  "  that  is  Eastun  Po-lice 


MISFORTUNES  OF  BRO*  THOMAS  WHEATLEY.    79 

station,  cawneh — naw,  on  Bank  Street.     On  Bank 
Street,  seh." 

I  listened  an  instanc. 

"  1—5—1,"  I  said,  "  151  ;  it  isn't  fifteen." 

Another  five  minutes  elapsed,  while  he  searched 
for  "  151,"  I  busily  writing  the  while. 

"  Hit's — w'y,  Lawd-a-massy  !  Mist'  Dunkin, 
hit's  fu'  de  milinte'y." 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  I.  "  Yes,  so  it  is  ;  but  they 
only  want  them  to  go  to  Cumberland.  There's  a 
strike  there,  and  the  strikers  are  getting  trouble- 
some." 

He  made  no  reply,  and  as  the  bells  ceased  ring- 
ing sopn  afterward,  I  resumed  my  work,  which 
kept  me  busy  until  seven  o'clock.  I  then  placed 
the  papers  in  an  envelope,  and  took  up  the  letters. 

"  Be  sure  you  see  the  Vice-President  himself, 
Thomas,"  I  said.  "  You  know  him,  don't  you  ?" 

Receiving  no  reply,  and  turning  to  ascertain  the 
cause  of  his  silence,  I  saw  he  was  leaning  out  at 
the  open  window,  gazing  earnestly  northward 
toward  Baltimore  Street. 

"  Thomas  !  Thomas  !"  I  shouted. 

He  heard  me  at  last,  and  withdrawing  his  head, 
apologized  for  his  inattention. 

"  I  thought — I  heehed  sup'n  nutha  like  a 
hollehin'  kine  of  a  noise,  an' — some  guns,  aw  sup'n, 
an'  I  wuz  look'n'  to  see,  but  thaih  don't  'peah  to 
be  nuthin'  goin'  on." 

"  They're  mending  the  railroad  on  Baltimore 
Street,"  I  said.  "I  suppose  that  is  what  you 


So  MISFORTUNES  OF  BR&  THOMAS  WffEATLEY. 

heard."  And  I  gave  the  papers  into  his  hand, 
repeating  my  directions  :  "If  the  gentleman  is 
not  there,  don't  leave  them  on  any  account.  I'll 
wait  here  until  you  get  back — but  go  first  to  the 
post-office  and  mail  these." 

He  wrapped  the  papers  carefully  in  his  handker- 
chief, placed  them  in  his  vest-pocket,  and  started 
off. 

After  he  left,  I  leaned  my  elbow  on  the  dusty 
window-sill  and  lounged  there  awhile,  watching 
him  as  he  trotted  busily  down  the  deserted  street  ; 
then,  rousing  myself,  I  stretched  my  weary  limbs 
and  set  about  arranging  my  desk,  closing  the  safe, 
etc.  At  last  everything  was  put  in  order,  and  I 
seated  myself  in  an  arm-chair,  rubbing  my  cramped 
fingers  and  wrist,  and  afterward  consulting  my 
watch,  more  for  something  to  do  than  to  ascertain 
the  time,  which  the  clock  on  the  mantel-piece 
would  have  told  me. 

Only  quarter  past  seven,  and  he  might  be  de- 
tained until  half-past  eight.  I  leaned  back  and 
closed  my  eyes.  How  still  and  hot  it  was  !  I 
believe  I  was  the  only  human  being  in  that  whole 
long  block  of  big  buildings  on  that  July  evening. 
Everything  was  as  quiet  as  the  typical  country 
churchyard.  I  had  a  lethargic  sense  now  and  then 
of  the  far-off  tinkle  of  a  car-bell.  I  could  catch  a 
distant  rumble  from  a  passing  vehicle  a  block  or 
two  away.  And,  yes,  I  did  observe  the  presence  of 
a  dull,  continuous  drone,  which  proceeded  from 
the  direction  of  Baltimore  Street,  but  just  as  I  sat 


MISFORTUNES  OF  BR&   THOMAS   WHEATLEY.    81 

up  to  hearken,  some  one  passing  whistled,  "  Silver 
Threads  among  the  Gold,"  the  melody  tracing 
itself  upon  the  stillness  like  phosphoric  letters  in  a 
dark  room.  I  listened  with  vivid  interest,  but  the 
tune  presently  grew  fainter,  faded,  and  was  dis- 
solved into  the  dusk,  leaving  me  lonelier  than 
before,  and  too  sleepy  to  give  my  attention  to  the 
strange  hum,  of  which  I  again  became  dully  con- 
scious. It  is  tiresome  work  waiting  here  with 
nothing  to  do,  was  my  last  drowsy  thought,  as  I 
folded  my  arms  on  the  desk,  and  rested  my  head 
upon  them,  to  be  aroused  by  a  knocking  at  my 
door. 

"  Come  in,"   I  called. 

The  door  creaked  on  its  hinges,  and  somebody 
entered.  I  waited  an  instant,  when  an  adolescent 
voice  of  the  colored  persuasion  asked  : 

"  Do  somebody  name  Mist'  Dunkin  live  here  ?" 
'  Yes.     I'm  here  ;  what  do  you  want  ?" 

"  Dey  wan's  you  down-y  street." 

I  stretched  myself,  reached  mechanically  for  a 
match,  and  lighted  the  gas,  which  disclosed  a  small 
yellow  boy,  standing  in  the  doorway,  some  fright 
and  a  good  deal  of  excitement  in  his  aspect.  I  then 
detected  that  he  had  something  important  to  tell, 
and  that  his  errand  was  a  source  of  gratification  to 
him. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?"  I  asked,  after  we  had  stared 
at  one  another. 

"  Ain't  yer  yeared  nuth'n'  'tall  ?"  a  shad*  of  con- 
tempt in  his  tone. 


82  MISFORTUNES  OF  BRO'  THOMAS  WHEATLEY. 

"No,  what  is  there  to  hear?"  I  asked,  rather 
irascibly. 

"  Dey's  a  big  fight  down-town  ;  de  folks  dey 
done  tore  de  Six  Reggimen'  all  ter  pieces,  an' 
dey's  wuk'n  'long  on  de  Fif  now." 

11  Whereabouts?" 

I  started  up,  and  got  on  my  hat  in  an  instant. 

"  Dey's  et  Camd'  Street  depot,  now.  Ole  col- 
ored gentlemun  he's  been  hurtid,  an'  sent  me  alter 
you." 

It  did  not  take  half  a  minute  to  lock  the  door, 
and  we  proceeded  down-stairs  together. 

"  He's  down  yere  on  Eutaw  Street,"  continued 
my  informant.  "  Dey's  fightin'  all  'long  dere  — 
I  come  nigh  gittin'  hit  myself — he  gimme  ten  cents 
to  come  tell  yer — maybe  he's  done  dade  now,"  he 
added,  cheerfully,  as  we  gained  the  street,  and 
began  to  walk. 

"  Dey  fet  all  'long  yere,"  was  his  next  breath- 
less remark,  made  some  time  later.  We  were  now 
proceeding  rapidly  up  Baltimore  Street,  as  rapidly, 
at  least,  as  people  can  who  are  pushing  against  a 
steady  stream  of  agitated  humanity.  "  Dey  fawr'd 
a  bullet  clean  through  de  Sun-paper  room,"  pur- 
sued the  boy,  "  an'  dey  bust  up  dem  dere  winder- 
glassis — " 

Pausing  involuntarily  to  look,  I  caught  stray 
scraps  of  additional  information. 

"  Twenty-five  people  killed." 

"  As  many  as  that  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  fully,  I  should  say.     The  Sixth  fired 


MISFORTUNES  OF  BRO'  THOMAS  WHEATLEY.    83 

right  into  the  crowd,  all  along  from  Gay  to  Eutaw 
Street/' 

"  Well,  I  hear  the  Sixth  are  pretty  well  cleaned 
out  by  this  time,  so  it's  tit  for  tat." 

Then- 

"  The  Fifth  must  be  there  now — " 

"  The  Fifth  ? — what  are  they — two  hundred  men 
against  two  thousand  ? — Lord  knows  how  it  will 
end.  I  hope  this  old  town  won't  be  burnt,  that's 
all."  The  boy,  listening,  turned  fearfully  around, 
looking  with  distended  eyes  into  mine.  "  Come 
on,"  I  responded,  and  we  spoke  no  more  until  we 
reached  Liberty  Street.  Then,  all  at  once,  above 
the  street  noises — the  rumbling  of  fugitive  vehicles, 
the  jingle  of  street-cars,  and  the  hum  of  excited 
voices — rose  a  deep,  hollow  roar  ;  a  horrible  sound 
of  human  menace  in  it,  which  was  distinguishable 
even  at  that  distance.  The  boy  pressed  closer, 
clutching  timidly  at  my  hand. 

"  Is  yer — is  yer  gwine  ter  keep  on  ?"  he  faltered. 
"  De  ole  gentleman,  he  'lowed  puticler  you  wa'n't 
to  run  no  resk  'count  o'  him." 

"  Where  is  he  ?"  I  asked.  "In  the  thick  of 
it?" 

"  No,  sir  ;  he's  lay'n'  down  in  a  little  alley — 
clean  off  d'  street." 

"  Come  on,  then  ;  you'll  have  to  show  me  where 
it  is.  I  won't  let  you  get  hurt." 

When  we  first  wheeled  into  South  Eutaw  Street, 
I  was  conscious  of  an  almost  painful  stillness, 
more  noticeable  after  the  tumult  of  confused  sounds 


84  MISFOR  rLWES  OP  BKO    THOMA  S   WHEA  TLE  V. 

from  which  we  had  just  emerged.  The  houses  on 
either  side  were  fast  closed,  doors  and  windows. 
Some  of  them  were  even  unlighted,  and  not  a 
vehicle  was  in  sight.  The  street  was  partially 
unpaved,  where  new  gas-pipes  had  been  laid,  and 
piles  of  paving-stones  were  heaped  on  the  edge  ot 
the  sidewalks.  The  place  seemed  deserted. 

But  presently,  far  down  in  the  immediate  vicinity 
of  the  depot,  I  perceived  accumulated  a  dense,  dark 
mass,  like  a  low-hanging  cloud,  from  which  a  low, 
hoarse  murmur  seemed  to  proceed.  It  swayed 
slightly  from  side  to  side,  with  the  inevitable  motion 
of  a  large  crowd,  while  at  the  same  time  it  kept 
well  within  certain  bounds.  We  walked  quickly 
along,  block  after  block,  without  encountering  a 
single  soul.  I  had  been  so  engrossed  with  the 
dark,  muttering  pulsation  in  front,  that  I  failed  to 
attend  to  the  sounds  from  behind,  until  the  boy, 
jerking  my  hand,  bade  me  listen  to  the  drum.  I 
heard  it  then  plainly,  as  soon  as  he  spoke,  and  the 
approaching  tramp  of  disciplined  feet  was  soon 
after  distinctly  audible.  I  turned  and  looked. 
The  Fifth  Regiment  was  marching  down  the  middle 
of  North  Eutaw  Street,  having  not  yet  crossed 
Baltimore  Street,  the  drum  corps  in  front,  the 
colors  flying,  and  crowding  the  sidewalks  on  either 
hand  was  a  motley  van  and  bodyguard,  consisting 
of  street  loafers  and  half-grown  'boys,  who  had 
come  along  to  see  the  "  fun,"  and  whose  sympa- 
thies were  plainly  with  the  rioters.  The  foremost 
of  these  soon  reached  the  spot  where  I  stood,  and 


AUSFOR  TUNES  OF  BRO'  THOMA  S  WHEA  TLE  Y.   85 

as  I  drew  aside  to  let  them  pass,  I  heard  a  gamin 
say  to  his  neighbor  : 

"  I  say,  Bill,  these  yere  putty  little  soldier-boys 
hadn't  better  make  ther  las'  will  an'  testyment — 
ain't  it  ?'  ' 

'*  I  dunno  'bout  that,"  replied  the  other,  a 
veteran  of  fourteen,  who  was  chewing  tobacco,  and 
whom  I  recognized  as  a  certain  one-eyed  newsboy. 
"  These  yere  men  hez  fought  in  the  late  war,  yer 
see,  plenty  of  'urn,  an'  you  bet  they  don't  carry  no 
bokays  on  ther  bayonits." 

As  the  column  advanced,  I  glanced  anxiously 
toward  the  human  sea  down  yonder.  At  first,  no 
additional  movement  could  be  detected,  then,  as 
the  drums  approached  nearer,  a  quick  stir,  like  a 
sudden  gust,  struck  its  troubled  waters  ;  the 
hoarse,  horrible  cry  tore  raggedly  through  the 
summer  air.  And  then  I  hastily  drew  the  terrified 
child  with  me  into  the  shade  of  a  receding  door- 
way— for  the  mad  flood  came  raving  over  its 
bounds  toward  us. 

The  mob  was  mostly  composed  of  men  in  their 
working-clothes,  with  bare  arms  and  gaunt, 
haggard  faces.  There  were  some  women  among 
them — wretched,  half-starved  creatures— who  kept 
shrieking  like  furies  all  the  time.  As  the  regiment, 
still  moving  resolutely  onward,  approached  within 
a  few  yards  of  them,  there  fell  the  first  volley  of 
stones,  accompanied  with  hoots  and  jeers  of 
derision. 

"  Thuz  only  two  hundred  of  'urn,  boys,"  shouted 


86  MISFORTUNES  OF  BRO*  THOMAS  WHEATLEY. 

a  rough  voice.  "  They'll  run  quick  enough  if  you 
give  it  to  'um  good,"  and  a  second  shower  of  mis- 
siles fell  into  the  ranks,  the  mob  arming  themselves 
with  the  paving-stones  at  hand. 

But  the  little  band  of  soldiers  did  not  once  falter, 
although  here  and  there  in  their  ranks  you  could 
discover  a  man  leaning  against  a  comrade,  who 
gave  him  support  as  they  moved  on  together.  The 
crowd  seemed  a  little  dashed.  The  dispersion  of 
the  Sixth  Regiment  had  been  such  a  mere  bagatelle, 
and  their  own  number  had,  since  then,  been  re- 
enforced  by  half  the  professional  rowdies  in  town. 
They  redoubled  their  cries,  which,  from  jeers,  now 
became  shouts  of  rage  and  mortification. 

"  Wot  are  you  'bout?"  Give  it  to  'um  good,  \ 
tell  yer.  They  daresn't  fire,"  howled  the  same 
brawny  giant  who  had  spoken  before. 

As  they  continued  the  attack,  a  pistol-shot  could 
be  heard  now  and  then  from  the  crowd.  The  regi- 
ment did  not  return  the  fire,  but  as  the  mob  pressed 
closer,  an  order  from  the  front  was  passed  along 
the  line. 

"  Fix  bayonets." 

The  opposing  parties  were  now  only  a  few  feet 
apart,  and  a  rain  of  stones  was  falling  so  thick  and 
fast  as  to  darken  the  air,  when  all  at  once  I  saw 
the  colonel's  sword  flash  out,  the  blunt  edge  strik- 
ing one  of  the  rioters  who  was  pressing  on  him. 

"  Clear  the  way,  there  !"  he  cried. 

Then,  wheeling  and  facing  his  command,  his 
voice  rang  out,  clear  as  a  bugle  : 


MISFORTUNES  OF  BRO'  THOMAS   WHEATLEY.    87 

"  A  -  r-  m  -  s,  'port  !  Double-time,  march  ! 
Ch-ar-ge,  bayonets  !  Hurrah  !  Give  'em  a  yell, 
boys,  and  you  can  do  it,"  added  the  colonel. 

I  cannot  describe  the  shout  which  followed — a 
clear,  ringing,  organized  whoop  ;  fresh  and  vi- 
brant ;  of  a  perfectly  distinct  quality  from  the 
hoarse,  undisciplined  howl  of  the  mob — sounding 
cool  and  terrible,  like  the  cry  of  an  avenging 
angel. 

The  mob  turned  and  fled,  appalled,  melting  away 
like  wax  before  the  blue  flame  of  the  glittering 
bayonets,  and  the  regiment  entered  the  depot. 

Then  I  took  time  to  breathe,  and  remembered 
Thomas. 

"  He  ain't  fur  f'om  yere/'  said  the  boy.  "  Right 
'roun'  d'  corner." 

And  we  passed  out  of  the  shelter  of  the  doorway 
to  a  small,  dirty  alley,  about  twenty-five  yards  dis- 
tant, where  I  found  the  old  man  resting  against  a 
lamp-post,  the  blood  streaming  down  his  face  from 
a  ghastly  wound  in  the  head,  and  his  eyes  closed. 
I  made  the  boy  get  some  water,  and  after  bathing 
his  face  for  a  few  moments,  I  succeeded  in  rousing 
him. 

"  Is  that  you,  Mist'  Dunkin  ?"  he  asked,  faintly. 

"  Yes.     How  do  you  feel,  Thomas  ?" 

"  Dey's  tuhibul  times  down-street,"  he  gasped. 
"  I  like  to  got  kilt." 

A  pause. 


88  MISFORTUNES  OF  BRO*  THOMAS  WHEATLEY. 

"  Dey  'lowed  dey  wanted  dem  daih  papehs — an' 
— dey  didn't  git  'um — an' — den — den  dey  hit  me 
side  de  hade — with  a  brickbat — an'  I  come  'long 
tell  I  git  yeah — an'  den,  disha  boy  he  come 
'long- 

His  voice  was  very  faint  and  his  hands  very  cold. 

"  Don't  talk  any  more  now,"  I  said,  chafing 
them  in  mine,  while  I  wondered  perplexedly  how 
I  should  get  him  home.  Presently  he  spoke  again  : 

"  But  de  papehs  is  all  right,  seh.  I  hilt  on  to 
'um,  sho'.  Dey — dey  couldn't  git  'um  nohow,  wid 
all  de  smahtniss,"  he  said,  with  feeble  triumph. 
"  Dey's  right  yeah  in  my  wescut  pocket."  Then 
he  added,  with  a  sudden  change  of  tone  :  "  But 
I'd  like  to  go  home,  Mist'  Dunkin  ;  Ailse'll  be 
oneasy  'bout  me." 

I  had  to  leave  him  with  the  boy  while  I  went  for 
a  doctor  and  a  vehicle,  neither  of  which  was  easy  to 
be  had,  but  finally  a  milk-wagon  was  pressed  into 
service,  and  although  the  mob  had  gathered 
together  again,  and  were  besieging  the  depot,  yet, 
after  some  delay,  we  succeeded  in  conveying  him 
to  his  home.  I  saw  him  safe  in  bed,  his  hurt 
dressed  ;  then,  after  bestowing  a  reward  upon  the 
colored  boy,  who  had  rendered  me  such  efficient 
service,  I  left  him  in  charge  of  the  doctor  and  his 
wife. 

Th3  latter  was  a  small,  plump  yellow  woman, 
with  large,  gentle  black  eyes,  and  the  soft  voice  so 
often  found  among  Virginia  "house"  servants. 
After  watching  her  as  she  assisted  the  surgeon  to 


MISFORTUNES  OF  BRO*  THOMAS  WHEATLEY.  89 

dress  the  wound,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  all  of 
her  talents  were  by  no  means  "  bound  up  in  nap- 
kins," and  I  went  home  assured  my  faithful  old 
messenger  was  left  in  very  capable  hands. 

Next  morning,  directly  after  breakfast,  I  sallied 
forth  to  inquire  concerning  his  condition.  After 
passing  along  the  crowded  thoroughfares,  where 
everybody  was  occupied  with  the  riot,  it  was  a 
relief  to  find  myself  turning  into  the  obscure  little 
street  where  he  lived. 

"  Here,  at  least,  everything  seems  peaceful 
enough,"  I  said,  aloud,  as  I  approached  the  house. 
I  was  just  in  the  act  of  placing  my  foot  on  the 
one  door-step,  when  the  door  was  thrown  violently 
open,  and  a  tall  black  woman  bounced  out,  collid- 
ing with  me  as  she  passed,  her  superior  momentum, 
thrusting  me  backward  across  the  narrow  pave- 
ment into  the  street.  She  was  too  excited  to  heed 
my  exclamation  of  astonishment.  I  don't  think 
she  saw  me,  even,  for  she  turned  immediately  and 
faced  some  one  standing  in  the  doorway,  whom 
I  now  perceived  to  be  Ailse,  looking  dreadfully 
frightened. 

"  Good-  morn  in',  Mis'  Wheatley,"  said  the 
Amazon,  with  withering  sarcasm  ;  "£w*/-mornin', 
madam.  I  think  you'll  know  it  the  nex'  time  I 
darkens  your  doors,  I  think  you  will.  Served  me 
right,  though,  we'en  I  demeaned  myself  to  come  ;  I 
might  'a'  knowed  what  treatment  I'd  'eceive  from 
you.  Ef  I  hadn't  ben  boun'  by  solemn  class-rules 
to  pay  some  'tention  to  Brother  Wheatley' s  im- 


90  MISFORTUNES  OF  BRO'  THOMAS  WHEATLEY. 

mortal  soul" — these  words  were  uttered  at  the 
very  top  of  her  voice—"  you  wouldn't  'a'  caught 
me  comin'  ;  but  I'll  never  come  ag'in,  never  ;  so 
make  yourself  easy,  Mis'  Wheatley. " 

A  shade  of  relief  passed  over  Ailse's  features  as 
this  assurance  was  repeated,  and  I  coming  forward 
at  this  moment,  the  representative  of  the  church 
militant  betook  herself  off,  while  I  entered  and 
spoke  to  Ailse,  who,  fairly  dazed,  sank  into  a  chair, 
and  stared  me  helplessly  in  the  face.  There  was  a 
moment's  silence,  when  she  suddenly  rose  and 
offered  me  a  seat,  remarking,  as  she  did  so,  that 
"  Sisteh  Ma'y  Ann  Jinkins  ca'in'  on  so"  made  her 
forget  her  manners. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"   said  I. 

"  I  dunno,  seh,  'cep'n'  she's  mad  'cause  docteh 
won't  leave  heh  stay  and  talk  to  Mist'  Wheatley  ; 
he  made  heh  go,  an'  I  s'pose  hit  kirtdeh  put  heh 
out." 

"  What  was  she  doing  ?" 

"  Talkin',  seh  ;  jiss  talkin'  and  prayin'." 

"  And  exciting  the  man  into  a  fever,"  said  the 
doctor,  entering  at  that  moment.  "  I  came  here 
half  an  hour  ago,"  he  continued,  turning  to  me, 
11  and  found  this  woman — who  really  is  a  good 
nurse — turned  out  of  her  husband's  room  by  that 
termagant  who  has  just  gone,  and  whom  I  found 
in  the  act  of  preparing  the  man  for  death,  she 
having  decided  his  hours  on  earth  were  numbered  ; 
in  fact,  I  actually  chanced  in  upon  a  species  of 
commendatory  prayer,  which,  if  continued  another 


MISFORTUNES  OF  BRO'  THOMAS  WHEATLEY.   91 

half  hour — and  I  have  every  reason  to  think  it 
would  have  been — would  almost  inevitably  have 
ended  the  man's  life." 

"  I  suppose  I  had  better  not  see  him  this  morn- 
ing, then,"  said  I. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  you  can  see  him  ;  he's  doing  well 
now,  and  if  he  doesn't  talk  too  much,  I  think  the 
sight  of  a  cheerful  face  will  do  him  good,"  and  I 
left  him  giving  some  directions  to  Ailse,  while  I 
proceeded  up-stairs  to  the  room  where  Thomas  lay. 
He  was  awake,  so  I  walked  up  to  his  bedside,  and 
asked  him  how  he  felt. 

"  I'm  tollubul,  thankee,  seh  ;  de  medicine  makes 
me  kind  o'  sleepy,  that's  all." 

I  seated  myself  beside  him,  there  was  a  moment 
or  two  of  silence,  then  he  asked,  fretfully  : 

"  Whai — whaih's  Ailse  ?  I  like  to  see  the  'oman 
'roun';  s'haint  got  no  speshul  great  gif ,  but  she's 
kind  o'  handy  wen  a  body's  sick." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  care  so  much  for  gifted 
women  in  a  sick-room,  Thomas?"  I  remarked, 
somewhat  mischievously,  after  I  had  summoned 
his  wife  from  down-stairs. 

"  Well,  naw,  seh,"  a  little  shamefacedly.  "  Not 
so  much.  You  see,  seh,  dey — dey'smos'  too  much 
fu'  a  body,  sich  times.  Dey  will  talk,  cou'se  dey 
will,  an'  'livah  'scouhcis,  an'  a  sick  man  he  hain't 
got  de  strenth  to — to  supplicate  in  kine,  an'  hit 
kind  o'  mawtifies  him,  seh." 

Once  more  there  followed  a  silence,  when  I 
asked  : 


92   MISFORTUNES  OF  BRO'  THOMAS  WHEATLEY. 

"  Thomas,  why  didn't  you  give  up  those  papers 
to  the  mob,  when  they  attacked  you  last  night  ? 
Your  retaining  them  might  have  cost  you  your  life. 
I  didn't  mean  you  to  endanger  your  life  for  them." 

He  smiled  slightly,  as  his  glance  met  mine. 

"  I  dunno,  seh,"  he  replied,  with  his  old  reflec- 
tive air.  "  You  tole  me  mos'  pehticaleh  to  hole  on 
to'um,  an'  'twouldn't  be  doin'  my  duty  faithful 
to  let  'um  go  's  long  ez  I  could  hole  on  to  'um." 

"  But  suppose  they  had  killed  you  ?" 

"Well,  Mist'  Dunkin,  ef  dey  had,  I  hope  I'd 
been  ready  to  go.  I  ben  tryin'  to  lead  a  godly  an' 
Chris'chun  life,  ez  Scripcheh  sez,  fu'  fawty  yeahs, 
now,  an*  I  hope  I'd  a  foun'  dyin'  grace  at  de  las'. 
You  see,  seh,  thing  hoped  me  mos'  was  de  thoughts 
of  a  tex'  Bro'  Moss  preached  on  las'  Sund'y  ; 
'peached  like  hit  hep'  on  jinglin'  in  my  hade  all 
time  dey  was  jawin'  an'  fightin'  with  me." 

"  What  text  was  it  ?"   I  asked. 

But  he  was  almost  asleep,  and  his  wife  signalled 
me  not  to  wake  him.  So  I  was  stealing  away 
toward  the  door,  when  he  opened  his  eyes  and 
murmured,  drowsily  : 

"  De  tex',  oh  yes,  seh.  I  fo'got —  'twas  a 
Scripcheh  tex'—4  Be  thou  faithful  unto 

He  then  turned  over,  settling  himself  comfort- 
ably in  his  pillows,  and  in  a  moment  dropped 
asleep. 

In  due  course  of  time,  he  made  his  appearance  in 
the  office  again,  being  anxious  to  "  resume  his 
duties,"  he  said.  But  that  blow  on  the  head  has 


MISFORTUNES  OF  BRO'  THOMAS   WHEATLEY.    93 

proved  to  be  a  serious  affair,  affecting  the  old  man's 
memory  permanently,  and  giving  a  violent  shock 
to  his  system,  from  which  it  will  never  entirely 
recover.  He  is  no  longer  the  clear-headed  mes- 
senger he  was,  when  he  was  wont  to  assert — no 
idle  boast  either — that  he  could  "  fetch  an'  cai' 
eq'il  to  any  man."  Now  and  then,  in  these  latter 
days,  he  confuses  things  a  little,  always  suffering 
the  keenest  mortification  when  he  discovers  his 
mistakes.  As  I  said  in  the  beginning,  he  is  still 
our  office-boy  and  messenger,  although  a  smart 
young  mulatto  is  hired  to  come  betimes,  make 
things  tidy,  and  leave  before  the  old  man  gets 
down,  so  his  feelings  mayn't  be  hurt.  He  some- 
times remarks  on  our  being  the  "  cleanis'  gentle- 
mun  in  de  wueld,"  but  we  contrive  that  no  whisper 
of  the  real  state  of  the  case  ever  reaches  his  ear, 
and  he  is  allowed  to  sweep  and  dust  a  little  to 
satisfy  his  mind. 


THE  HEARTBREAK  CAMEO. 

BY  LIZZIE  W.  CHAMPNEY. 


IT    is  a   cameo  to   break  one's   heart  !"    said 
Mrs.  Dalliba,  as  she  toyed  with  the  superb 
jewel.       '  The  cutting  is  unmistakably  Florentine, 
and  yet  you  have  placed  it  among  your  Indian  cu- 
riosities.    I  do  not  understand  it  at  all." 

Mrs.  Dalliba  was  a  connoisseur  in  gems  ;  she 
had  travelled  from  one  extremity  of  Europe  to  the 
other  ;  had  studied  the  crown  jewels  of  nearly 
every  civilized  nation,  haunted  museums,  and  was 
such  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  jewellers'  of  the 
Palais  Royal,  that  many  of  them  had  come  to  re- 
gard her  as  an  individual  who  might  harbor  bur- 
glarious intentions.  She  was  a  very  harmless 
specialist,  however,  who,  though  she  loved  these 
stars  of  the  underworld  better  than  any  human 
being,  could  never  have  been  tempted  to  make  one 
of  them  unfairly  her  own,  and  she  seldom  pur- 

***   Galaxy,  January,  1877. 


THE   HEARTBREAK   CAMEO.  95 

chased,  for  she  never  coveted  one  unless  it  was 
something  quite  extraordinary,  beyond  the  reach 
of  even  her  considerable  fortune.  Meanwhile  few 
of  the  larger  jewelry  houses  had  in  their  employ 
lapidaries  more  skilled  than  Mrs.  Dalliba.  She 
pursued  her  studies  for  the  mere  love  of  the 
science,  devoting  a  year  in  Italy  to  mosaics, 
cameos,  and  intaglios.  And  yet  the  Crevecceur 
cameo  had  puzzled  wiser  heads  than  Mrs.  Dalliba' s, 
adept  though  she  was.  It  was  cut  from  a  solid 
heart-shaped  gem,  a  layer  of  pure  white,  shad- 
ing down  through  exquisite  gradations  into  deep 
green,  and  representing  Aphrodite  rising  from  the 
sea  ;  the  white  foam  rose  gracefully,  with  arms  ex- 
tended, scattering  the  drops  of  spray  from  her 
hands  and  her  wind-blown  hair  ;  the  foamy  waves 
were  beautifully  cut  with  their  intense  hollows  and 
snowy  crests  ;  it  was  evidently  the  work  of  a  cul- 
tivated as  well  as  a  natural  artist  ;  it  was  not  sur- 
prising that  Mrs.  Dalliba  should  insist  that  it 
could  not  have  been  executed  out  of  Italy. 

But  Prof.  Stonehenge  was  right  too  ;  it  was 
a  stone  of  the  chalcedonic  family,  resembling  sar- 
donyx, except  in  color  ;  others,  similar  to  it  both  in 
a  natural  state  and  wrought  into  arrow-heads,  had 
been  found  along  the  shores  of  Lake  Superior. 
This  seemed  to  have  been  brought  away  from  its 
associates  by  some  wandering  tribe,  for  it  had 
been  discovered  in  Central  Illinois.  The  nearest 
point  at  which  other  relics  belonging  to  the  same 
period  had  been  found  was  the  site  of  Fort  Creve- 


96  THE   HEARTBREAK  CAMEO. 

coeur,  near  Starved  Rock,  Illinois.  After  all,  the 
stone  only  differed  from  the  arrow-heads  of  Lake 
Superior  in  its  beautiful  carving  and  unprecedent- 
ed size — and,  ah,  yes  !  there  was  another  differ- 
ence, the  mystery  of  its  discovery.  No  other 
skeleton  among  all  the  buried  braves  unearthed  by 
scientific  research  at  Crevecceur  had  been  found 
with  a  gem  for  a  heart — a  gem  that  glittered  not 
on  the  breast,  but  within  a  chest  hooped  with 
human  bone.  Mrs.  Dalliba  had  just  remarked  that 
she  had  never  felt  so  strong  a  desire  to  possess  and 
wear  any  jewel  as  now  ;  but  when  Prof.  Stone- 
henge  told  how  the  uncanny  thing  rattled  within 
the  white  ribs  of  the  skeleton  in  which  it  was 
found,  she  allowed  the  gem  to  slip  from  her  hand, 
while  something  of  its  own  pale  green  flickered  in 
the  disgusted  expression  which  quivered  about  the 
corners  of  her  mobile  mouth.  The  cameo  was  a 
mystery  which  had  baffled  geologist,  antiquarian, 
and  sculptor  alike,  for  Father  Francis  Xavier  had 
gone  down  to  his  grave  with  his  secret  and  his 
cameo  hidden  in  his  heart.  He  had  kept  both  well 
for  two  centuries,  and  when  the  heart  crumbled  in 
dust  it  took  its  secret  with  it,  leaving  only  the 
cameo  to  bewilder  conjecture. 

Its  story  was,  alter  all,  a  simple  one.  On  the 
southern  shore  of  Michillimackinac,  in  the  roman- 
tic days  of  the  first  exploration  of  the  great  lakes 
by  the  Courreurs  de  Bois  and  pioneer  priests,  had 
settled  good  Pere  Ignace,  a  devoted  Jesuit  mission- 
ary. The  old  man  was  revered  and  loved  by  the 


THE  HEARTBREAK  CAMEO,  97 

Indians  among  whom  he  dwelt.  His  labors  blos- 
somed in  a  little  village,  called  from  his  patron 
saint  the  mission  of  St.  Ignace,  that  displayed  its 
cluster  of  white  huts  and  wigwams  like  the  petals 
of  a  water-lily  on  the  margin  of  the  lake.  Just 
back  of  the  village  was  a  round  knoll  which  served 
as  a  landmark  on  the  lake,  for  the  shore  near  St. 
Ignace  was  remarkably  level.  On  the  summit  of 
this  mound  the  good  father  had  reared  a  great 
white  cross,  and  at  its  foot  the  superstitious 
Indians  often  laid  votive  offerings  of  strongly  in- 
congruous character.  Here  he  had  lived  and 
taught  for  many  years,  succeeding  in  instructing 
his  little  flock  in  the  French  tongue,  and  in  at  least 
an  outward  semblance  of  the  Catholic  religion. 
Even  the  rude  trappers,  who  came  to  trade  at  regu- 
lar intervals,  revered  him,  and  lived  like  good 
Christians  while  at  the  mission,  so  as  not  to  coun- 
teract his  teaching  by  their  lawless  example.  Here 
Pere  Ignace  was  growing  old,  and  even  this  grass- 
hopper of  a  spiritual  charge  was  becoming  a  bur- 
den. His  superior,  at  Montreal,  understood  this, 
and  sent  him.  an  assistant. 

Very  unlike  Father  Ignatius  was  Pere  Frangois 
Xavier,  a  man  with  all  the  fire  and  enthusiasm  of 
youth  in  his  blood—  just  the  one  for  daring,  hazard- 
ous enterprises  ;  just  the  one  to  undergo  all  the 
privation  and  toil  of  planting  a  mission  ;  to  under- 
take plans  requiring  superhuman  efforts,  and  to 
carry  them  through  successfully  by  main  force  of 
will.  A  better  assistant  for  Father  Ignatius  could 


98  THE  HEARTBREAK  CAMEO. 

not  have  been  found.  It  was  force,  will,  and  intel- 
lect in  the  service  of  love  and  meekness  ;  only  there 
was  a  doubt  if  the  servant  might  not  usurp  the 
place  of  the  master,  and  the  sway  of  love  be  not 
materially  advanced  by  its  new  ally.  Indeed,  if 
the  truth  had  been  known,  even  the  Bishop  of 
Montreal  had  felt  that  Father  Francis  Xavier  was 
too  ambitious  a  character  to  reside  safely  in  too 
close  proximity  to  himself  ;  and  engrossing  em- 
ployment at  a  distance  for  him,  rather  than  the 
expressed  solicitude  for  Father  Ignatius,  prompted 
this  appointment.  The  results  of  the  following 
year  approved  the  arrangement.  The  mission 
received  a  new  accession  of  life  ;  its  interests  were 
pushed  forward  energetically. 

Father  Francis  Xavier  devoted  himself  to  an  ac- 
quisition of  the  various  Indian  dialects,  and  to  ex- 
cursions among  the  neighboring  tribes.  Converts 
were  made  in  astonishing  numbers,  and  they 
brought  liberal  gifts  to  the  little  church  from  their 
simple  possessions.  Father  Ignatius  had  never 
thought  to  barter  with  the  trappers  and  traders, 
but  his  colleague  did  ;  large  church  warehouses 
were  erected,  and  the  mission  soon  had  revenues  of 
importance.  Away  in  the  interior  Father  Xavier 
had  discovered  there  was  a  silver  mine  ;  but  this 
discovery,  for  the  present,  he  made  no  attempt  at 
exploiting.  He  had  secured  it  to  the  church  by 
title  deed  and  treaty  with  the  chief  who  claimed 
it  ;  had  visited  it  and  assured  himself  that  it  would 
some  day  be  very  valuable,  and  he  contented  him- 


THE  HEARTBREAK  CAMEO.  99 

self  with  this  for  the  present,  and  even  managed  to 
forget  its  acquisition  in  his  yearly  report  sent  to 
Montreal.  Father  Francis  Xavier  was  something 
of  a  geologist  ;  his  father  was  a  Florentine  jewel- 
ler, and  the  son  had  studied  as  his  apprentice,  not 
having  at  first  been  destined  for  the  church.  Even 
after  taking  holy  orders,  Father  Francis  Xavier 
had  labored  over  precious  stones  designed  for  ec- 
clesiastical decoration.  His  specialty  had  been 
that  of  a  gem  engraver,  and  his  long  white  fingers 
were  remarkably  skilful  and  delicate,  This  north- 
ern region,  with  all  its  wealth  of  precious  stones, 
was  a  great  jewel  casket  for  him,  and  he  became  at 
once  an  enthusiastic  collector. 

Before  the  coming  of  his  assistant,  Father  Igna- 
tius had  managed  his  own  simple  housekeeping  in 
all  its  most  humble  details.  Now  they  had  the 
services  of  an  Indian  maid  of  all  work,  who  had 
been  brought  up  under  the  eyes  of  Father  Igna- 
tius, and  whom  the  old  man  regarded  rather  as  a 
daughter  than  as  a  servant.  Her  moccasined  feet 
fell  as  silently  as  those  of  spirits  as  she  glided 
about  their  lodge.  She  never  sang  at  her  work, 
and  rarely  spoke,  but  she  smiled  often  with  a  smile 
so  childlike  as  to  be  almost  silly  in  expression. 
Father  Ignatius  loved  the  silent  smile,  and  a  word 
from  him  was  always  sure  to  bring  it  ;  but  it 
angered  Father  Francis  Xavier  more  than  many  a 
more  repulsive  thing  would  have  done.  It  seemed 
so  utterly  imbecile  and  babyish  to  him,  he  had  got 
so  far  away  from  innocence  and  smiles  and  child- 


loo  THE  HEARTBREAK  CAMEO. 

hood  himself,  that  the  sight  of  them  irritated  him. 
The  young  Indian  girl  had  a  long  and  almost  un- 
pronounceable name.  Pere  Ignace  had  baptized 
her  Marie,  and  the  new  name  had  gradually  taken 
the  place  of  the  old. 

One  day,  as  she  was  silently  but  dexterously 
putting  to  order  the  large  upper  room,  which  serv- 
ed Pere  Francis  Xavier  as  study  and  dormitory,  she 
paused  before  his  collection  of  agates  and  miner- 
als, and  stroking  the  stones,  said  in  her  soft  French 
and  Indian  patois,  "  Pretty,  pretty."  Father  Xav- 
ier was  seated  at  the  great  open  window,  looking 
over  the  top  of  his  book  away  across  the  breezy 
lake.  He  heard  the  words,  and  knew  that  she  was 
looking  at  him  from  the  corner  of  her  eye,  but  his 
only  reply  was  a  deeper  scowl  and  a  lowering  of 
his  glance  to  the  printed  page.  The  silly  smile 
which  he  felt  sure  was  upon  her  face  faded  out,  but 
the  girl  spoke  again,  and  this  time  more  resolute- 
ly, determined  to  attract  his  attention.  "  Pretty 
stones.  Marie's  father  many  more,  much  prettier 
— much." 

Father  Xavier  laid  down  his  book.  He  was  all 
attention.  "  Where  did  your  father  get  them  ?" 
he  asked. 

"  In  the  mountains  climb,  in  the  mines  dig,  in 
the  lake  dive,  he  seek  them  all  the  time  summer." 

"  What  does  he  do  with  them  ?" 

"  Cuts  them  like  mon pbre,"  and  Marie  imitated 
in  pantomime  the  use  of  the  hammer  and  chisel. 
"  Cut  them  all  time  winter,  very  many." 


THE  HEARTBREAK  CAMEO,  lol 

"  What  does  he  do  that  for?"  asked  the  priest, 
surprised. 

"  All  the  same  you,"  replied  the  girl — "  make 
arrow-heads." 

"  Oh  !  he  makes  arrow-heads,  does  he  ?  Mine 
are  not  arrow-heads,  but  I  should  like  to  see  what 
your  father  does.  Does  he  live  far  from  here  ?" 

"  Marie  take  you  to-night  in  canoe." 

"  Very  well,  after  supper." 

She  had  often  taken  him  out  upon  the  lake 
before,  for  she  managed  their  birch-bark  canoe  with 
more  skill  than  himself,  and  it  was  convenient  to 
have  some  one  to  paddle  while  he  fished  or  read  or 
dreamed.  She  rowed  him  swiftly  up  the  lake  for 
several  miles,  then,  fastening  the  canoe,  led  the 
way  through  a  trail  in  the  forest.  The  sun  was  set- 
ting, and  "  the  whispering  pines  and  the  hemlocks" 
of  the  forest  primeval  formed  a  tapestry  of  gloom 
around  the  paternal  wigwam  as  they  reached  it. 
Black  Beaver,  her  father,  reclined  lazily  in  the 
door,  watching  the  coals  of  the  little  fire  in  front 
of  his  tent.  He  was  always  lazy.  It  was  difficult 
to  believe  that  he  ever  climbed  or  dug  or  dived  for 
agates  as  Marie  had  said,  so  complete  a  picture  he 
seemed  of  inaction.  The  girl  spoke  a  few  words  to 
him  in  their  native  dialect,  and  he  grumblingly 
rose,  shuffled  into  the  interior  of  the  wigwam,  and 
brought  out  two  baskets.  One  was  a  shallow  tray 
filled  with  the  finished  heads  in  great  variety  of 
material  and  color.  There  were  white  carnelian, 
delicately  striped  with  prophetic  red,  blood-stone 


105  TffE  HEARTBREAK   CAAfMO. 

deep  colored  and  hard  as  ruby,  agates  of  every 
shade  and  marking,  flinty  jasper,  emerald-banded 
malachite,  delicate  rose  color,  and  purple  ones 
made  from  shells,  and  various  crystals  with  whose 
names  Father  Francis  Xavier  was  unfamiliar. 
There  was  one  shading  from  dark  green  through 
to  red,  only  a  drop  of  the  latter  color  on  the  very 
tip  of  the  arrow  where  blood  would  first  kiss 
blood.  Father  Xavier  looked  at  it  in  wondering 
admiration,  and  at  last  asked  Black  Beaver  what  he 
called  it. 

11  It  is  a  devil-stone/'  replied  the  Indian. 
"  More  here,"  and  he  opened  the  deeper  basket  in 
which  were  stored  the  unground  and  uncut  stones, 
and  placed  a  superb  gem  in  Father  Xavier' s  hand. 
He  had  ground  it  sufficiently  to  show  that  it  was  in 
two  layers,  white  and  green  ;  in  this  there  was  no 
touch  of  red,  but  in  every  other  respect  it  was  the 
handsomer  stone. 

"Will  you  sell  it  to  me?"  asked  the  priest. 
"  How  much  ?" 

The  Indian  smiled  with  an  expression  strangely 
like  that  of  his  daughter,  and  put  it  back  with 
alacrity  in  his  basket,  saying,  "  Me  no  sell  big 
devil-stone.  No  money  buy." 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  it  ?"  asked 
Father  Xavier. 

"Make  arrow-head—very  hungry — no  blood;" 
and  he  indicated  the  absence  of  the  red  tint. 
"Very  hungry— kill  very  much— never  have 
enough  .'" 


THE  HEARTBREAK  CAMEO,  103 

"  Then  you  mean  to  keep  it  and  use  it  yourself  ?" 

"  No,"  said  the  other.  "Me  no  hunt  game — 
hunt  stones." 

"  What  will  you  do  with  it  ?"  asked  the  puzzled 
priest. 

"Give  it  away,"  said  Black  Beaver — "give 
away  to  greatest — " 

"  Chief  ?"  asked  Father  Xavier. 

Black  Beaver  shook  his  head. 

"  Friend  then  ?" 

"No,"  grunted  the  arrow-head  maker — "give 
away  to  big  enemy  f 

"What  did  he  mean  by  that?"  Father  Xavier 
asked  of  Marie  on  their  way  back  to  the  mission. 
And  the  girl  explained  the  superstition  that  Indians 
of  their  own  tribe  never  killed  an  enemy  with  ordi- 
nary weapons,  for  fear  that  his  soul  would  wait  for 
theirs  in  the  Happy  Hunting  Grounds  ;  but  if  he 
was  shot  with  a  devil-stone,  the  soul  could  not  fly 
upward,  but  would  sink  through  all  eternity,  until 
it  reached  the  deepest  spot  of  all  the  great  lakes 
under  the  stony  gaze  of  the  Doom  Woman. 

When  he  inquired  further  as  to  the  whereabouts 
of  the  Doom  Woman's  residence  he  ascertained 
that  she  was  only  a  sharp  cliff  among  "  the  pict- 
ured rocks  of  sandstone"  of  the  upper  lake — a  cliff 
that  viewed  from  either  side  maintained  its  resem- 
blance to  a  female  profile  looking  sternly  down  at 
the  water  beneath  it,  which  was  here  believed  to 
be  unfathomable.  The  Doom  Woman  still  exists. 
Strange  to  say,  under  its  sharp-cut  features  a 


104  THE  HEARTBREAK  CAMEO. 

steamer  has  since  been  wrecked  and  sunk,  and  its 
expression  of  gloomy  fate  is  now  awfully  appro- 
priate. Marie  had  visited  "  the  great  Sea  Water" 
with  her  father.  Nature's  titanic  and  fanciful  fres- 
coing and  cameo-cutting  had  strongly  wrought 
upon  her  impressionable  mind,  and  the  old  legends 
and  superstitions  of  paganism  had  been  by  no 
means  effaced  by  the  very  slight  veneer  of  Chris- 
tianity which  she  had  received  at  the  mission. 

From  this  evening  Father  Xavier's  manner 
toward  her  changed.  Her  smile  no  longer  seemed 
to  irritate  him,  and  a  close  observer  might  have 
noticed  that  she  smiled  less  than  formerly.  He 
talked  with  her  more,  paid  closer  attention  to  her 
studies,  made  her  little  presents  from  time  to  time, 
and  spoke  to  her  always  with  studied  gentleness 
that  was  quite  foreign  to  his  nature.  And  Marie 
watched  him  at  work  over  his  stones,  spent  her 
spare  time  in  rambling  in  search  of  those  which  she 
had  learned  he  liked,  and  laid  upon  his  table  with- 
out remark  each  new  discovery  of  quartz,  or  crys- 
tal, or  pebble.  She  had  been  in  the  habit  of  mak- 
ing little  boxes  which  she  decorated  with  a  rude 
mosaic  of  small  shells,  and  Father  Xavier  noticed 
that  these  gradually  acquired  more  taste  and  were 
arranged  with  some  eye  to  the  harmonies  of  color, 
while  the  forms  were  copied  with  Chinese  accuracy 
from  patterns  on  the  bindings  of  his  books  or  the 
borders  of  the  religious  pictures.  Marie  was  de- 
veloping under  an  art  education  which,  if  carried 
far  enough,  might  effect  great  things.  She  even 


THE  HEARTBREAK  CAMEO.  1 6$ 

managed  his  graving  tools  with  a  good  deal  of  ac- 
curacy, copying  designs  which  he  set  her,  until  he 
wondered  what  his  father  would  have  thought  of 
so  apt  an  apprentice. 

Suddenly,  one  morning  in  midsummer,  Marie 
announced  that  she  should  leave  them.  Her  father 
was  going  on  a  long  expedition  for  stones  to  the 
head  of  Lake  Superior,  and  she  did  not  know  when 
she  might  return.  As  she  imparted  this  informa- 
tion she  watched  Father  Xavier  from  the  corner  of 
her  eye,  and  something  of  the  old  childish  smile 
reappeared  as  he  showed  that  he  was  really  an- 
noyed. 

The  summer  passed  profitably  for  the  Black 
Beaver,  and  he  began  to  think  of  returning  to  St. 
Ignace  with  his  small  store  of  valuable  stones 
before  the  fall  gales  should  set  in.  He  was  just  a 
few  days  too  late.  When  within  sight  of  Michil- 
limackinac  a  storm  arose  driving  them  out  upon 
the  open  lake,  and  playing  with  their  canoe  as 
though  it  were  a  cockle-shell.  When  the  storm 
abated  a  cloudy  night  had  set  in  ;  no  land  was  visi- 
ble in  any  direction  ;  they  had  completely  lost 
their  direction,  and  knew  not  toward  which  point  to 
seek  the  shore.  Paddling  at  hazard  might  take 
them  further  out  into  the  centre  of  the  lake,  and 
indeed  they  were  too  worn  with  battling  with  the 
storm  to  do  any  more  than  keep  the  tossed  skiff 
from  capsizing.  Morning  dawned  wet  and  gray, 
after  a  miserable  night  ;  they  were  drenched  to  the 
skin,  and  almost  spent  with  weariness  and  hunger, 


Io6  THE  HEARTBREAK  CAMEO. 

and  now  that  a  wan  and  ghostly  daylight  had 
come  they  were  no  better  for  it,  for  an  impene- 
trable fog  shut  them  in  on  every  side.  Marie  and 
her  mother  began  to  pray.  The  Black  Beaver  sat 
dogged  and  inert,  with  upturned  face,  regarding 
the  sky. 

The  day  wore  by  wearily  ;  some  of  the  time  they 
paddled  straight  onward,  with  sinking  hearts,  know- 
ing not  toward  what  they  were  going,  and  at  others 
rested  with  the  inaction  of  despair.  When  the 
position  of  the  bright  spot  which  meant  the  sun 
told  that  it  lacked  but  an  hour  of  sunset,  and  the 
clouds  seemed  to  be  thickening  rather  than  dis- 
persing, the  Black  Beaver  gave  a  long  and  hideous 
howl.  His  wife  and  daughter  shuddered  when 
they  heard  it,  as  would  any  one,  for  a  more  un- 
earthly and  discordant  cry  was  never  uttered  by 
man  or  beast  ;  but  they  had  double  reason  to  shud- 
der ;  it  was  the  death  cry  of  their  nation. 

"  We  can  never  live  through  another  night," 
said  he,  and  he  covered  his  face  with  his  arms. 

"  Father,"  said  Marie,  "  try  what  power  there  is 
in  the  white  man's  God.  Say  that  you  will  give 
Him  your  devil-stone  if  He  will  save  us  now." 

"  The  priest  may  have  it,"  said  the  Black 
Beaver,  and  he  uncovered  his  face  and  sat  up  as 
though  expecting  a  miracle.  And  the  miracle 
came.  The  sun  was  setting  behind  them,  and  in 
front,  somewhat  above  the  horizon,  the  clouds 
parted,  forming  a  circle  about  a  white  cross  which 
hung  suspended  in  the  air.  They  all  saw  it  dis- 


THE  HEARTBREAK   CAMEO.  107 

tinctly,  but  only  for  a  few  moments  ;  then  the 
clouds  closed  and  the  vision  vanished.  With  new 
hope  the  little  party  rowed  toward  the  spot  where 
they  had  last  seen  it,  and  through  the  fog  they 
could  dimly  discern  the  outlines  of  the  coast — they 
were  nearing  land.  A  little  further  on,  and  a  vil- 
lage was  visible,  which  gained  a  more  and  more 
familiar  aspect  as  they  approached.  Night  settled 
down  before  they  reached  it,  but  ere  their  feet 
touched  the  land  they  had  recognized  the  mission 
of  St.  Ignace.  The  cross  was  not  a  vision.  The 
clouds  had  parted  to  show  them  the  great  white 
landmark  and  sign  which  Father  Ignatius  had 
raised  upon  the  little  knoll. 

The  next  day  the  Black  Beaver  unearthed  his 
devil-stone,  and  fastening  a  silver  chain  to  it,  was 
about  to  carry  it  away  and  attach  it  to  the  cross, 
which  was  already  loaded  with  the  gifts  of  the 
little  colony  ;  but  Marie  took  it  from  his  hand. 
"  I  will  give  it  to  the  good  priest  myself,"  she 
said.  "  He  may  see  fit  to  place  it  on  the  image  of 
the  Virgin  in  the  church." 

A  few  days  later  Marie  placed  the  coveted  stone 
in  Father  Xavier's  hand  ;  but  what  was  his  bitter 
disappointment  to  find  that  she  had  marred  the  ex- 
quisite thing  by  a  rude  attempt  at  a  delineation 
upon  it  of  the  vision  of  the  cross.  She  had  care- 
fully chiselled  away  the  milky  white  layer,  except- 
ing on  the  crests  of  some  very  primitive  represen- 
tations of  waves,  and  within  the  awkwardly  plain 
cross  in  the  centre  of  the  gem.  All  his  hopes  of 


lo£  THE  HEARTBREAK  CAMEO. 

cutting  a  face  upon  this  lovely  jewel  were  crush- 
ed ;  it  was  ruined  by  her  unskilful  work.  Father 
Xavier  was  completely  master  of  his  own  emotions. 
He  took  the  stone  without  remark,  and  hung  it,  as 
Marie  requested,  about  the  neck  of  the  Madonna. 
Each  day  as  he  said  mass  the  sight  of  the  mutilated 
jewel  roused  within  him  resentful  feelings  against 
poor,  well-wishing  little  Marie.  He  had  been  very 
kind  to  her  since  he  had  first  seen  the  stone  in  the 
possession  of  her  father,  but  now  it  was  worse  than 
before.  He  avoided  her  markedly,  for  the  smile 
which  so  annoyed  him  still  lighted  her  face  when- 
ever she  saw  him,  and  there  was  in  it  a  reproachful 
sadness  which  was  even  more  aggravating  than  its 
simple  childishness  had  been. 

One  day  Father  Xavier,  in  turning  over  his 
papers,  came  across  an  old  etching  of  Venus  rising 
from  the  sea.  The  figure,  with  its  outstretched 
arms,  suggested  a  possibility  to  him.  He  made  a 
careful  tracing  of  it,  took  it  to  the  church,  and  laid 
it  upon  the  stone.  All  of  its  outlines  came  within 
the  white  cross  ;  there  was  still  hope  for  the  cameo. 
All  that  winter  Father  Xavier  toiled  upon  it,  ex- 
hausting his  utmost  skill,  but  never  exhausting  his 
patience.  His  chief  trial  was  in  the  extreme  hard- 
ness of  the  stone,  which  rapidly  wore  out  his  grav- 
ing tools.  At  last  it  was  finished,  and  Father 
Xavier  confessed  to  himself,  in  all  humility,  that 
he  had  not  only  never  executed  so  delicate  a  piece 
of  workmanship,  but  he  had  never  seen  its  equal. 
Every  curve  of  the  exquisite-hued  waves  was 


THE  HEARTBREAK  CAMEO.  109 

studied  from  the  swell  that  sometimes  swept 
grandly  in  from  the  lake  on  the  long  reef  of  rocks 
a  few  miles  above  St.  Ignace.  The  form  of  the 
goddess  was  modelled  from  his  remembrance  of 
the  Greek  antique.  It  was  a  gem  worthy  of  an 
emperor.  What  should  he  do  with  it  ? 

As  the  spring  ripened  into  summer,  ambitious 
thoughts  flowered  in  Pere  Francis  Xavier's  soul. 
What  a  grand  bishopric  this  whole  western  country 
would  make  with  its  unexplored  wealth  of  mines, 
and  furs,  and  forest !  Why  should  he  be  obliged 
to  make  reports  of  the  revenue  which  his  -own 
financiering  had  secured  to  the  mission,  to  the 
head  at  Montreal  ?  Why  should  not  his  reverence 
the  Lord  Bishop  Francis  Xavier  dwell  in  an  epis- 
copal palace  built  somewhere  on  these  lakes,  with 
unlimited  spiritual  and  temporal  sway  over  all  this 
country  ?  To  effect  such  a  scheme  it  would  .be 
necessary  for  him  to  see  both  the  King  of  France 
and  the  Pope.  He  was  not  sure  that  even  if  he 
could  return  to  Europe  immediately,  he  had  the 
influence  necessary  in  either  quarter,  but  the  cameo 
was  a  step  in  the  right  direction.  Something  of 
the  same  thought  occurred  at  the  same  time  to  the 
Bishop  of  Montreal.  Father  Xavier's  reports 
showed  the  mission  to  be  in  a  flourishing  condi- 
tion. The  first  struggles  of  the  pioneer  were 
over.  Father  Xavier  must  not  be  left  in  too  luxu- 
rious a  position.  The  Chevalier  La  Salle  was  now 
fitting  out  his  little  band  designed  to  explore 
the  lakes  and  follow  the  Mississippi  from  its 


HO  THE   HEARTBREAK   CAMEO. 

source  to  the  Gulf.  A  most  important  expedition  ; 
it  would  be  well  that  the  Jesuit  fathers  should  share 
in  the  honors  if  it  proved  successful,  and  if  the 
little  party  perished  in  its  hazardous  enterprise, 
Pere  Francis  Xavier  could  perhaps  be  spared  as 
easily  as  any  member  of  his  spiritual  army. 

And  so,  in  the  summer  of  1679,  the  Chevalier 
sailed  up  the  Lac  du  Dauphin,  as  Lake  Erie  was 
then  called,  into  the  Lac  d'Orleans,  or  Huron, 
carrying  letters  in  which  Pere  Francis  Xavier  was 
ordered  to  leave  his  charge  for  a  time  in  order  to 
render  all  the  assistance  in  his  power  to  the  ex- 
plorers. The  Bishop  of  Montreal  could  never  have 
guessed  with  what  heartfelt  joy  his  command  was 
obeyed.  Father  Xavier  was  tired  of  this  peaceful 
life,  tired  of  "  the  endless  wash  of  melancholy 
waves,"  of  the  short  cool  summers,  and  long  white 
blank  of  winter  ;  tired  of  inaction,  of  the  lack  of 
stimulating  surroundings,  of  the  gentleness  of 
Father  Ignatius  and  Marie's  haunting  smile. 
Here,  too,  might  be  the  very  occasion  he  craved  of 
making  himself  famous  and  deserving  of  reward  as 
an  explorer.  It  was  true  that  he  started  as  a  sub- 
ordinate, but  that  was  no  reason  that  he  should 
return  in  the  same  capacity.  Marie  had  served  the 
noble  guests  with  pleasant  alacrity,  passing  the 
rainbow-tinted  trout  caught  as  well  as  broiled  by 
her  own  hand,  and  the  luscious  huckleberries  in 
tasteful  baskets  of  her  own  braiding,  and  Tontz 
Main  de  Fer,  the  chivalric  companion  and  friend 
of  La  Salle,  was  moved  like  Geraint,  served  by 


THE  HEARTBREAK  CAMEO.  in 

Enid,  "  to  stoop  and  kiss  the  dainty  little  thumb 
that  crossed  the  trencher."  The  salutation  was 
received  with  unconscious  dignity  by  little  Marie  ; 
once  only  was  Fere  Frangois  Xavier  annoyed  by 
the  absence  of  a  display  of  childish  pleasure  in  an 
ever-ready  smile. 

History  tells  how  trial  and  privation  of  every 
kind  waited  on  this  little  band  of  heroic  men  ;  how 
hunger,  and  cold,  and  fever  dogged  their  steps  ; 
how  the  Indians  proved  treacherous  and  hostile  ; 
how,  having  reached  central  Illinois,  after  incredi- 
ble exertion,  they  found  themselves  in  the  dead  of 
winter  unable  to  proceed  further,  and  surrounded 
by  tribes  incited  against  them  by  some  unknown 
enemy.  A  fatality  seemed  to  hang  over  them  ; 
suspicious  occurrences  indicated  that  they  had  a 
traitor  among  their  number,  but  he  was  never  dis- 
covered. La  Salle  did  not  despair  or  abandon  the 
enterprise  ;  but  when  six  of  his  most  trusted  men 
mutinied  and  deserted,  he  lost  hope,  and  became 
seized  with  a  presentiment  that  he  would  never 
return  from  his  expedition.  Father  Xavier  was  his 
confidant  as  well  as  confessor,  but  he  seems  not  to 
have  been  able  to  disperse  the  gloom  which  settled 
over  the  leader's  mind.  Perhaps  he  did  not  en- 
deavor to  do  so.  Hopeless  but  still  true  to  his 
trust,  La  Salle  constructed  near  Peoria  a  fort  which 
he  named  Crevecceur,  in  token  of  his  despondency 
and  disappointment.  Leaving  Tontz  Main  de  Fer 
in  command  here  with  the  greater  part  of  his  men, 
he  set  out  with  five  for  Frontenac,  on  the  2d  of 


112  THE  HEARTBREAK  CAMEO. 

March,  1680,  intending  to  return  with  supplies  to 
take  command  again  of  his  party,  and  to  proceed 
southward.  It  was  at  this  point  that  the  most  in- 
explicable event  of  the  entire  enterprise  occurred. 
Before  the  party  divided  some  one  attempted  to 
poison  the  Chevalier  La  Salle.  The  poison  was  a 
subtle  and  slow  one,  similar  in  its  effects  to  those 
used  by  the  Borgia  family  ;  the  secret  of  its  manu- 
facture was  thought  to  be  unknown  out  of  Italy. 
Fortunately  he  had  taken  an  under  or  overdose  of 
it,  and  the  effects  manifested  themselves  only  in  a 
long  illness.  He  was  too  far  on  his  journey  from 
Fort  Heartbreak  when  stricken  down  to  return  to 
it,  and  was  mercifully  received  and  nursed  back  to 
health  by  the  friendly  Pottawottamies. 

While  the  leader  was  lying  sick  in  an  Indian 
lodge,  the  knightly  Tontz,  ignorant  of  the  fate  of 
his  friend,  was  having  his  troubles  at  the  little  fort 
of  Heartbreak.  Pere  Frangois  Xavier  had  re- 
mained with  him,  and  aided  him  with  counsels  and 
personal  exertions  ;  he  had  made  himself  so  indis- 
pensable that  he  was  now  lieutenant  ;  if  anything 
should  happen  to  Tontz,  he  would  be  commander. 
He  was  secretary  of  the  expedition,  drew  careful 
maps,  and  made  voluminous  daily  entries  in  a 
journal,  which  was  afterward  found  to  be  a  marvel 
of  painstaking  both  in  the  facts  and  fictions  which 
it  contained.  Scanty  mention  was  there  of  La 
Salle  and  Tontz  Main  de  Fer,  and  much  of  Pere 
Fran9ois  Xavier,  but  it  was  clear,  explicit,  depict- 
ing the  advantages  of  an  acquisition  of  this  terri- 


THE  HEARTBREAK  CAMEO.  113 

tory  to  the  crown  of  France  in  glowing  terms,  and 
strongly  advising  that  the  man  who  had  most  dis- 
tinguished himself  in  the  difficulties  of  its  discovery 
should  be  appointed  as  governor,  or  baron,  under 
the  royal  authority. 

While  Father  Xavier  was  compiling  this  remark- 
able piece  of  authorship,  the  Iroquois  descended  in 
warlike  array  upon  the  somewhat  friendly  disposed 
Illinois  Indians,  in  whose  midst  Fort  Crevecceur 
had  been  built.  The  suspicious  Indian  mind  im- 
mediately connected  the  advent  of  their  enemies 
with  the  building  of  the  fort,  and  regarded  the 
little  garrison  with  distrust.  Tontz,  at  the  instance 
of  Father  Xavier,  presented  himself  to  their  chief, 
and  offered  to  do  anything  in  his  power  to  prove 
his  friendly  intentions.  The  chief  accepted  his 
services,  and  sent  him  as  ambassador  to  inquire 
into  the  cause  of  the  coming  of  the  Iroquois.  This 
mission  had  nearly  been  his  last,  for  Tontz  was 
received  with  stabs,  and  hardly  allowed  to  give  the 
message  of  the  chief.  His  ill-treatment  at  the 
hands  of  their  enemies  did  not  reassure  the  sus- 
picious Illinois,  who  ordered  Tontz  to  immediately 
evacuate  the  fort  and  return  with  his  forces  to  the 
country  whence  he  had  come.  In  his  wounded  con- 
dition such  a  journey  was  extremely  hazardous,  and 
it  must  have  been  with  grave  doubts  as  to  his  sur- 
viving it  that  Father  Xavier  took  temporary  com- 
mand of  the  returning  expedition. 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  1681.  Father  Xavier  had 
been  absent  nearly  two  years.  Father  Ignatius 


114  THE  HEARTBREAK  CAMEO. 

missed  him  sadly — all  the  life  and  fire  seemed  to 
have  gone  out  of  the  mission.  Even  Marie  moved 
about  her  work  in  a  listless,  languid  way,  which 
contrasted  markedly  with  her  once  lithe  and  rapid 
movements.  They  had  not  once  heard  from  the 
explorers,  and  Father  Ignatius  shook  his  head 
sadly,  and  feared  that  he  would  never  see  his 
energetic  colleague  again.  The  Black  Beaver  had 
slept  through  the  last  months  of  winter,  and,  as 
with  the  general  awakening  of  spring  the  bears 
came  out  of  their  dens,  and  the  snakes  sunned 
themselves  near  their  holes,  he  too  stretched  himself 
lazily  and  awoke  to  a  consciousness  of  what  was 
passing  around  him.  In  the  first  place  something 
was  amiss  with  Marie.  When  she  came  to  the 
wigwam  it  was  not  to  chat  merrily  of  the  affairs  of 
the  mission.  She  did  not  braid  as  many  baskets  as 
formerly,  and  no  longer  showed  him  new  patterns 
in  shell  mosaic  on  the  lids  of  little  boxes.  He  was 
a  curious  old  man,  and  he  soon  drew  her  secret 
from  her.  Marie  loved  Pere  Frangois  Xavier,  and 
he  had  gone. 

The  Black  Beaver  went  down  to  the  mission  one 
evening  and  had  a  long  talk  with  Father  Ignatius. 
He  ascertained  first  that  Pere  Francois  Xavier 
really  meant  to  return  ;  then,  with  all  the  dignity  of 
an  old  feudal  baron,  he  offered  Marie  as  a  bride  for 
his  spiritual  son.  Very  gently  the  good  Pere 
Ignace  explained  that  Romish  priests  were  so 
nearly  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven  that  the  question 
of  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage  was  not  for 


THE  HEARTBREAK  CAMEO.  115 

them  to  consider.  The  Black  Beaver  went  home, 
told  no  one  of  his  visit,  and  for  several  days  in- 
dulged in  the  worst  drunken  spree  of  which  he  was 
capable.  When  he  came  out  of  it  he  announced  to 
his  wife  and  Marie  that  he  was  going  away  on  his 
annual  trip  for  stores,  but  that  they  need  not 
accompany  him. 

Marie  knelt  as  usual  in  the  little  church  on  the 
evening  of  the  day  on  which  her  father  had  gone 
away.  Pere  Frangois  Xavier  had  replaced  the 
cameo  on  the  Virgin's  breast  before  he  went  ;  it 
was  a  safer  place  than  the  vault  of  a  bank  would 
have  been,  had  such  a  thing  existed  in  the  country. 
There  was  no  one  in  the  island  sacrilegious  enough 
to  rob  the  church.  Marie  had  gazed  at  the  stone 
each  time  that  she  repeated  the  prayer  which  he 
had  taught  her.  She  looked  up  now,  and  it  was 
gone. 

Half  way  upon  their  northward  route,  Tontz's 
band  were  struggling  wearily  on  when  they  were 
met  by  a  solitary  Indian,  who,  though  he  carried  a 
long  bow,  had  not  an  unfriendly  aspect.  He  eyed 
the  little  band  silently  as  they  passed  by  him  in 
defile,  then  ran  after  them,  and  inquired  if  the 
Pere  Francois  Xavier,  of  Mission  St.  Ignace,  was 
not  of  their  number.  He  was  informed  that  the 
reverend  father  had  remained  a  short  distance  be- 
hind to  write  in  his  journal,  but  that  he  would  soon 
overtake  them  ;  and  he  was  warmly  pressed  to 
remain  with  them  if  he  had  messages  for  the  priest, 
and  give  them  to  him  when  he  arrived  ;  but  the 


Ii6  THE  HEARTBREAK  CAMEO. 

Indian  shook  his  head  and  passed  on  in  the  direction 
in  which  they  told  him  he  would  be  likely  to  meet 
Father  Xavier.  The  party  halted  and  waited  hour 
after  hour  for  the  priest,  but  he  did  not  come. 
Finally  two  went  back  in  search,  and  found  him 
lying  upon  the  sod  with  upturned  face — the  place 
where  he  had  written  last  in  his  journal  marked  by 
a  few  drops  of  his  heart's  blood,  and  the  long  shaft 
of  an  arrow  protruding  from  his  breast.  They 
drew  it  out,  but  the  arrow-head  had  been  attached, 
as  is  the  custom  in  some  Indian  tribes,  by  means 
of  a  soft  wax,  which  is  melted  by  the  warmth  of 
the  body,  and  it  remained  in  the  heart.  Father 
Xavier  had  been  dead  some  hours.  They  buried 
him  where  they  found  him,  and  proceeded  on  their 
march.  Tontz  recovered  on  the  way.  They 
reached  Michillimackinac  in  safety,  where  they 
were  joined  two  months  later  by  La  Salle  ;  and  the 
world  knows  the  result  of  his  second  expedition. 

Little  Marie  learned  by  degrees  to  smile  again, 
and  in  after  years  married  another  arrow-head 
maker,  as  swarthy  and  as  shaggy  as  the  Black 
Beaver.  There  is  no  moral  to  my  story  except  that 
of  poetic  justice.  Pere  Francois  Xavier  had  sown 
a  plentiful  crop  of  stratagems,  and  he  learned  in 
the  lonely  forest  that  "  Whatsoever  a  man  soweth 
that  shall  he  also  reap." 

Meanwhile  to  all  but  you,  my  readers,  the 
Crevecceur  cameo  remains  as  great  a  mystery  as 
ever. 


MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE. 

BY  ALBERT  WEBSTER. 


I. 

FOR  a  long  time  blithe  and  fragile  Miss  Eunice, 
demure,  correct  in  deportment,  and  yet  not 
wholly  without  enthusiasm,  thought  that  day  the 
unluckiest  in  her  life  on  which  she  first  took  into 
her  hands  that  unobtrusive  yet  dramatic  book, 
"  Miss  Crofutt's  Missionary  Labors  in  the  English 
Prisons." 

It  came  to  her  notice  by  mere  accident,  not  by 
favor  of  proselyting  friends  ;  and  such  was  its 
singular  material,  that  she  at  once  devoured  it  with 
avidity.  As  its  title  suggests,  it  was  the  history  of 
the  ameliorating  endeavors  of  a  woman  in  criminal 
society,  and  it  contained,  perforce,  a  large  amount 
of  tragic  and  pathetic  incident.  But  this  last  was 
so  blended  and  involved  with  what  Miss  Eunice 

#**  Atlantic  Monthly ',  July^    1873. 


n8  MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE. 

would  have  skipped  as  commonplace,  that  she  was 
led  to  digest  the  whole  volume — statistics,  phi- 
losophy, comments,  and  all.  She  studied  the 
analysis  of  the  atmosphere  of  cells,  the  properties 
and  waste  of  wheaten  flour,  the  cost  of  clothing  to 
the  general  government,  the  whys  and  wherefores 
of  crime  and  evil-doing  ;  and  it  was  not  long  before 
there  was  generated  within  her  bosom  a  fine  and 
healthy  ardor  to  emulate  this  practical  and  cour- 
ageous pattern. 

She  was  profoundly  moved  by  the  tales  of  mis- 
sionary labors  proper.  She  was  filled  with  joy  to 
read  that  Miss  Crofutt  and  her  lieutenants  some- 
times cracked  and  broke  away  the  formidable  husks 
which  enveloped  divine  kernels  in  the  hearts  of 
some  of  the  wretches,  and  she  frequently  wept  at 
the  stories  of  victories  gained  over  monsters  whose 
defences  of  silence  and  stolidity  had  suddenly  fallen 
into  ruin  above  the  slow  but  persistent  sapping  of 
constant  kindness.  Acute  tinglings  and  chilling 
thrills  would  pervade  her  entire  body  when  she 
read  that  on  Christmas  every  wretch  seemed  to 
become  for  that  day,  at  least,  a  gracious  man  ;  that 
the  sight  of  a  few  penny  tapers,  or  the  possession 
of  a  handful  of  sweet  stuff,  or  a  spray  of  holly,  or 
a  hot-house  bloom,  would  appear  to  convert  the 
worst  of  them  into  children.  Her  heart  would 
swell  to  learn  how  they  acted  during  the  one  poor 
hour  of  yearly  freedom  in  the  prison-yards  ;  that 
they  swelled  their  chests  ;  that  they  ran  ;  that  they 
took  long  strides  ;  that  the  singers  anxiously  tried 


MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE.  119 

their  voices,  now  grown  husky  ;  that  the  athletes 
wrestled  only  to  find  their  limbs  stiff  and  their  arts 
forgotten  ;  that  the  gentlest  of  them  lifted  their 
faces  to  the  broad  sky  and  spent  the  sixty  minutes 
in  a  dreadful  gazing  at  the  clouds. 

The  pretty  student  gradually  became  possessed 
with  a  rage.  She  desired  to  convert  some  one,  to 
recover  some  estray,  to  reform  some  wretch. 

She  regretted  that  she  lived  in  America,  and  not 
in  England,  where  the  most  perfect  rascals  were  to 
be  found  ;  she  was  sorry  that  the  gloomy,  sin- 
saturated  prisons  which  were  the  scenes  of  Miss 
Crofutt's  labors  must  always  be  beyond  her  ken. 

There  was  no  crime  in  the  family  or  the  neighbor- 
hood against  which  she  might  strive  ;  no  one  whom 
she  knew  was  even  austere  ;  she  had  never  met  a 
brute  ;  all  her  rascals  were  newspaper  rascals.  For 
aught  she  knew,  this  tranquillity  and  good-will 
might  go  on  forever,  without  affording  her  an 
opportunity.  She  must  be  denied  the  smallest  con- 
tact with  these  frightful  faces  and  figures,  these  bars 
and  cages,  these  deformities  of  the  mind  and  heart, 
these  curiosities  of  conscience,  shyness,  skill,  and 
daring  ;  all  these  dramas  of  reclamation,  all  these 
scenes  of  fervent  gratitude,  thankfulness,  and  in- 
toxicating liberty — all  or  any  of  these  things  must 
never  come  to  be  the  lot  of  her  eyes  ;  and  she  gave 
herself  up  to  the  most  poignant  regret. 

But  one  day  she  was  astonished  to  discover  that 
all  of  these  delights  lay  within  half  an  hour's 
journey  of  her  home  ;  and  moreover,  that  there 


120  MJSS  EUNICE* S  GLOVE. 

was  approaching  an  hour  which  was  annually  set 
apart  for  the  indulgence  of  the  inmates  of  the 
prison  in  question.  She  did  not  stop  to  ask  her- 
self, as  she  might  well  have  done,  how  it  was  that 
she  had  so  completely  ignored  this  particular  in- 
stitution, which  was  one  of  the  largest  and  best 
conducted  in  the  country,  especially  when  her 
desire  to  visit  one  was  so  keen  ;  but  she  straight- 
way set  about  preparing  for  her  intended  visit  in  a 
manner  which  she  fancied  Miss  Crofutt  would  have 
approved,  had  she  been  present. 

She  resolved,  in  the  most  radical  sense  of  the 
word,  to  be  alive.  She  jotted  on  some  ivory 
tablets,  with  a  gold  pencil,  a  number  of  hints  to 
assist  her  in  her  observations.  For  example  : 
"  Phrenological  development  ;  size  of  cells  ; 
ounces  of  solid  and  liquid  ;  tissue-producing  food  ; 
were  mirrors  allowed  ?  if  so,  what  was  the  effect  ? 
jimmy  and  skeleton-key,  character  of ;  canary 
birds  :  query,  would  not  their  admission  into  every 
cell  animate  in  the  human  prisoners  a  similar  buoy- 
ancy ?  to  urge  upon  the  turnkeys  the  use  of  the 
Spanish  garrote  in  place  of  the  present  distressing 
gallows  ;  to  find  the  proportion  of  Orthodox  and 
Unitarian  prisoners  to  those  of  other  persuasions." 
But  beside  these  and  fifty  other  similar  memo- 
randa, the  enthusiast  cast  about  her  for  something 
practical  to  do. 

She  hit  upon  the  capital  idea  of  flowers.  She  at 
once  ordered  from  a  gardener  of  taste  two  hundred 
bouquets,  or  rather  nosegays,  which  she  intended 


MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE.  121 

for  distribution  among  the  prisoners  she  was  about 
to  visit,  and  she  called  upon  her  father  for  the 
money. 

Then  she  began  to  prepare  her  mind.  She 
wished  to  define  the  plan  from  which  she  was  to 
make  her  contemplations.  She  settled  that  she 
would  be  grave  and  gentle.  She  would  be  ex- 
quisitely careful  not  to  hold  herself  too  much  aloof, 
and  yet  not  to  step  beyond  the  bounds  of  that 
sweet  reserve  that  she  conceived  must  have  been  at 
once  Miss  Crofutt's  sword  and  buckler. 

Her  object  was  to  awaken  in  the  most  abandoned 
criminals  a  realization  that  the  world,  in  its  most 
benignant  phase,  was  still  open  to  them  ;  that 
society,  having  obtained  a  requital  for  their 
wickedness,  was  ready  to  embrace  them  again  on 
proof  of  their  repentance. 

She  determined  to  select  at  the  outset  two  or 
three  of  the  most  remarkable  monsters,  and  turn 
the  full  head  of  her  persuasions  exclusively  upon 
them,  instead  of  sprinkling  (as  it  were)  the  whole 
community  with  her  grace.  She  would  arouse  at 
first  a  very  few,  and  then  a  few  more,  and  a  few 
more,  and  so  on  ad  infinitum. 

It  was  on  a  hot  July  morning  that  she  journeyed 
on  foot  over  the  bridge  which  led  to  the  prison,  and 
there  walked  a  man  behind  her  carrying  the 
flowers. 

Her  eyes  were  cast  down,  this  being  the  position 
most  significant  of  her  spirit.  Her  pace  was  equal, 
firm,  and  rapid  ;  she  made  herself  oblivious  of  the 


122  MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE. 

bustle  of  the  streets,  and  she  repented  that  her 
vanity  had  permitted  her  to  wear  white  and  lavender, 
these  making  a  combination  in  her  dress  which  she 
had  been  told  became  her  well.  She  had  no  right 
to  embellish  herself.  Was  she  going  to  the  races, 
or  a  match,  or  a  kettle-drum,  that  she  must  dandify 
herself  with  particular  shades  of  color  ?  She 

stopped  short,  blushing.  Would  Miss  Cro . 

But  there  was  no  help  for  it  now.  It  was  too  late 
to  turn  back.  She  proceeded,  feeling  that  the  odds 
were  against  her. 

She  approached  her  destination  in  such  a  way 
that  the  prison  came  into  view  suddenly.  She 
paused,  with  a  feeling  of  terror.  The  enormous 
gray  building  rose  far  above  a  lofty  white  wall  of 
stone,  and  a  sense  of  its  prodigious  strength  and 
awful  gloom  overwhelmed  her.  On  the  top  of  the 
wall,  holding  by  an  iron  railing,  there  stood  a  man 
with  a  rifle  trailing  behind  him.  He  was  looking 
down  into  the  yard  inside.  His  attitude  of  watch- 
fulness, his  weapon,  the  unseen  thing  that  was 
being  thus  fiercely  guarded,  provoked  in  her  such 
a  revulsion  that  she  came  to  a  standstill. 

What  in  the  name  of  mercy  had  she  come  here 
for  ?  She  began  to  tremble.  The  man  with  the 
flowers  came  up  to  her  and  halted.  From  the 
prison  there  came  at  this  instant  the  loud  clang  of 
a  bell,  and  succeeding  this  a  prolonged  and  reso- 
nant murmur  which  seemed  to  increase.  Miss 
Eunice  looked  hastily  around  her.  There  were 
several  people  who  must  have  heard  the  same 


MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE.  1^3 

sounds  that  reached  her  ears,  but  they  were  not 
alarmed.  In  fact,  one  or  two  of  them  seemed  to 
be  going  to  the  prison  direct.  The  courage  of  our 
philanthropist  began  to  revive.  A  woman  in  a 
brick  house  opposite  suddenly  pulled  up  a  window- 
curtain  and  fixed  an  amused  and  inquisitive  look 
upon  her. 

This  would  have  sent  her  into  a  thrice-heated 
furnace.  "  Come,  if  you  please,"  she  commanded 
the  man,  and  she  marched  upon  the  jail. 

She  entered  at  first  a  series  of  neat  offices  in  a 
wing  of  the  structure,  and  then  she  came  to  a  small 
door  made  of  black  bars  of  iron.  A  man  stood  on 
the  farther  side  of  this,  with  a  bunch  of  large  keys. 
When  he  saw  Miss  Eunice  he  unlocked  and  opened 
the  door,  and  she  passed  through. 

She  found  that  she  had  entered  a  vast,  cool,  and 
lofty  cage,  one  hundred  feet  in  diameter  ;  it  had 
an  iron  floor,  and  there  were  several  people  stroll- 
ing about  here  and  there.  Through  several  grated 
apertures  the  sunlight  streamed  with  strong  effect, 
and  a  soft  breeze  swept  around  the  cavernous 
apartment. 

Without  the  cage,  before  her  and  on  either  hand, 
were  three  more  wings  of  the  building,  and  in  these 
were  the  prisoners'  corridors. 

At  the  moment  she  entered,  the  men  were  leaving 
their  cells,  and  mounting  the  stone  stairs  in  regular 
order,  on  their  way  to  the  chapel  above.  The 
noisy  files  went  up  and  down  and  to  the  right  and 
to  the  left,  shuffling  and  scraping  and  making  a 


124  MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE. 

great  tumult.  The  men  were  dressed  in  blue,  and 
were  seen  indistinctly  through  the  lofty  gratings. 
From  above  and  below  and  all  around  her  there 
came  the  metallic  snapping  of  bolts  and  the  rattle 
of  moving  bars  ;  and  so  significant  was  everything 
of  savage  repression  and  impending  violence,  that 
Miss  Eunice  was  compelled  to  say  faintly  to  herself, 
"  I  am  afraid  it  will  take  a  little  time  to  get  used 
to  all  this." 

She  rested  upon  one  of  the  seats  in  the  rotunda 
while  the  chapel  services  were  being  conducted, 
and  she  thus  had  an  opportunity  to  regain  a  portion 
of  her  lost  heart.  She  felt  wonderfully  dwarfed 
and  belittled,  and  her  plan  of  recovering  souls  had, 
in  some  way  or  other,  lost  much  of  its  feasibility. 
A  glance  at  her  bright  flowers  revived  her  a  little, 
as  did  also  a  surprising,  long-drawn  roar  from  over 
her  head,  to  the  tune  of  '  'America. ' '  The  prisoners 
were  singing. 

Miss  Eunice  was  not  alone  in  her  intended  work, 
for  there  were  several  other  ladies,  also  with  sup- 
plies of  flowers,  who  with  her  awaited  until  the 
prisoners  should  descend  into  the  yard  and  be  let 
loose  before  presenting  them  with  what  they  had 
brought.  Their  common  purpose  made  them 
acquainted,  and  by  the  aid  of  chat  and  sympathy 
they  fortified  each  other. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  five  hundred  men  de- 
scended from  the  chapel  to  the  yard,  rushing  out 
upon  its  bare  broad  surface  as  you  have  seen  a 
burst  of  water  suddenly  irrigate  a  road-bed.  A 


MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE.  125 

hoarse  and  tremendous  shout  at  once  filled  the  air, 
and  echoed  against  the  walls  like  the  threat  of  a 
volcano.  Some  of  the  wretches  waltzed  and  spun 
around  like  dervishes,  some  threw  somersaults, 
some  folded  their  arms  gravely  and  marched  up 
and  down,  some  fraternized,  some  walked  away 
pondering,  some  took  off  their  tall  caps  and  sat 
down  in  the  shade,  some  looked  toward  the  rotunda 
with  expectation,  and  there  were  those  who  looked 
toward  it  with  contempt. 

There  led  from  the  rotunda  to  the  yard  a  flight 
of  steps.  Miss  Eunice  descended  these  steps  with 
a  quaking  heart,  and  a  turnkey  shouted  to  the 
prisoners  over  her  head  that  she  and  others  had 
flowers  for  them. 

No  sooner  had  the  words  left  his  lips,  than  the 
men  rushed  up  pell-mell. 

This  was  a  crucial  moment. 

There  thronged  upon  Miss  Eunice  an  army  of 
men  who  were  being  punished  for  all  the  crimes  in 
the  calendar.  Each  individual  here  had  been  caged 
because  he  was  either  a  highwayman,  or  a  forger, 
or  a  burglar,  or  a  ruffian,  or  a  thief,  or  a  murderer. 
The  unclean  and  frightful  tide  bore  down  upon  our 
terrified  missionary,  shrieking  and  whooping. 
Every  prisoner  thrust  out  his  hand  over  the  head 
of  the  one  in  front  of  him,  and  the  foremost 
plucked  at  her  dress. 

She  had  need  of  courage.  A  sense  of  danger  and 
contamination  impelled  her  to  fly,  but  a  gleam  of 
/eason  in  the  midst  of  her  distraction  enabled  her 


126  MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE. 

to  stand  her  ground.     She  forced  herself  to  smile, 
though  she  knew  her  face  had  grown  pale. 

She  placed  a  bunch  of  flowers  into  an  immense 
hand  which  projected  from  a  coarse  blue  sleeve  in 
front  of  her  ;  the  owner  of  the  hand  was  pushed 
away  so  quickly  by  those  who  came  after  him  that 
Miss  Eunice  failed  to  see  his  face.  Her  tortured 
ear  caught  a  rough  "  Thank  y',  miss  !"  The 
spirit  of  Miss  Crofutt  revived  in  a  flash,  and  her 
disciple  thereafter  possessed  no  lack  of  nerve. 

She  plied  the  crowd  with  flowers  as  long  as  they 
lasted,  and  a  jaunty  self  possession  enabled  her 
finally  to  gaze  without  flinching  at  the  mass  of 
depraved  and  wicked  faces  with  which  she  was 
surrounded.  Instead  of  retaining  her  position 
upon  the  steps,  she  gradually  descended  into  the 
yard,  as  did  several  other  visitors.  She  began  to 
feel  at  home  ;  she  found  her  tongue,  and  her  color 
came  back  again.  She  felt  a  warm  pride  in  notic- 
ing with  what  care  and  respect  the  prisoners  treated 
her  gifts  ;  they  carried  them  about  with  great  ten- 
derness, and  some  compared  them  with  those  of 
their  friends. 

Presently  she  began  to  recall  her  plans.  It 
occurred  to  her  to  select  her  two  or  three  villains. 
For  one,  she  immediately  pitched  upon  a  lean- 
faced  wretch  in  front  of  her.  He  seemed  to  be 
old,  for  his  back  was  bent  and  he  leaned  upon  a 
cane.  His  features  were  large,  and  they  bore  an 
expression  of  profound  gloom.  His  head  was  sunk 
upon  his  breast,  his  lofty  conical  cap  was  pulled 


MISS  EUNICE' S  GLOVE.  127 

over  his  ears,  and  his  shapeless  uniform  seemed  to 
weigh  him  down,  so  infirm  was  he. 

Miss  Eunice  spoke  to  him.  He  did  not  hear  ; 
she  spoke  again.  He  glanced  at  her  like  a  flash, 
but  without  moving  ;  this  was  at  once  followed  by 
a  scrutinizing  look.  He  raised  his  head,  and  then 
he  turned  toward  her  gravely. 

The  solemnity  of  his  demeanor  nearly  threw 
Miss  Eunice  off  her  balance,  but  she  mastered  her- 
self by  beginning  to  talk  rapidly.  The  prisoner 
leaned  over  a  little  to  hear  better.  Another  came 
up,  and  two  or  three  turned  around  to  look.  She 
bethought  herself  of  an  incident  related  in  Miss 
Crofutt's  book,  and  she  essayed  its  recital.  It  con- 
cerned a  lawyer  who  was  once  pleading  in  a  French 
criminal  court  in  behalf  of  a  man  whose  crime  had 
been  committed  under  the  influence  of  dire  want. 
In  his  plea  he  described  the  case  of  another  whom 
he  knew  who  had  been  punished  with  a  just  but 
short  imprisonment  instead  of  a  long  one,  which 
the  judge  had  been  at  liberty  to  impose,  but  from 
which  he  humanely  refrained.  Miss  Eunice 
happily  remembered  the  words  of  the  lawyer  : 
"  That  man  suffered  like  the  wrong-doer  that  he 
was.  He  knew  his  punishment  was  just.  There- 
fore there  lived  perpetually  in  his  breast  an  impulse 
toward  a  better  life  which  was  not  suppressed  and 
stifled  by  the  five  years  he  passed  within  the  walls 
of  the  jail.  He  came  forth  and  began  to  labor. 
He  toiled  hard.  He  struggled  against  averted 
faces  and  cold  words,  and  he  began  to  rise.  He 


128  MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE. 

secreted  nothing,  faltered  at  nothing,  and  never 
stumbled.  He  succeeded  ;  men  took  off  their  hats 
to  him  once  more  ;  he  became  wealthy,  honorable, 
God-fearing.  I,  gentlemen,  am  that  man,  that 
criminal."  As  she  quoted  this  last  declaration, 
Miss  Eunice  erected  herself  with  burning  eyes  and 
touched  herself  proudly  upon  the  breast.  A  flush 
crept  into  her  cheeks,  and  her  nostrils  dilated,  and 
she  grew  tall. 

She  came  back  to  earth  again,  and  found  herself 
surrounded  with  the  prisoners.  She  was  a  little 
startled. 

"  Ah,  that  was  good  !"  ejaculated  the  old  man 
upon  whom  she  had  fixed  her  eyes.  Miss  Eunice 
felt  an  inexpressible  sense  of  delight. 

Murmurs  of  approbation  came  from  all  of  her 
listeners,  especially  from  one  on  her  right  hand. 
She  looked  around  at  him  pleasantly. 

But  the  smile  faded  from  her  lips  on  beholding 
him.  He  was  extremely  tall  and  very  powerful. 
He  overshadowed  her.  His  face  was  large,  ugly, 
and  forbidding  ;  his  gray  hair  and  beard  were 
cropped  close,  his  eyebrows  met  at  the  bridge  of 
his  nose  and  overhung  his  large  eyes  like  a  screen. 
His  lips  were  very  wide,  and,  being  turned  down- 
ward at  the  corners,  they  gave  him  a  dolorous 
expression.  His  lower  jaw  was  square  and  pro- 
truding, and  a  pair  of  prodigious  white  ears  pro- 
jected from  beneath  his  sugar-loaf  cap.  He  seemed 
to  take  his  cue  from  the  old  man,  for  he  repeated 
his  sentiment. 


MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE.  129 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  with  a  voice  which  broke  alter- 
nately into  a  roar  and  a  whisper,  "  that  was  a  good 
story." 

"  Y-yes,"  faltered  Miss  Eunice,  "  and  it  has  the 
merit  of  being  t-rue." 

He  replied  with  a  nod,  and  looked  absently  ove* 
her  head  while  he  rubbed  the  nap  upon  his  chin 
with  his  hand.  Miss  Eunice  discovered  that  his 
knee  touched  the  skirt  of  her  dress,  and  she  was 
about  to  move  in  order  to  destroy  this  contact, 
when  she  remembered  that  Miss  Crofutt  would 
probably  have  cherished  the  accident  as  a  promote! 
of  a  valuable  personal  influence,  so  she  allowed  it 
to  remain.  The  lean-faced  man  was  not  to  be 
mentioned  in  the  same  breath  with  this  one,  there- 
fore  she  adopted  the  superior  villain  out  of  hand. 

She  began  to  approach  him.  She  asked  him 
where  he  lived,  meaning  to  discover  whence  he  had 
come.  He  replied  in  the  same  mixture  of  roar  and 
whisper,  "  Six  undered  un  one,  North  Wing." 

Miss  Eunice  grew  scarlet.  Presently  she  re- 
covered sufficiently  to  pursue  some  inquiries  re- 
specting the  rules  and  customs  of  the  prison.  She 
did  not  feel  that  she  was  interesting  her  friend,  yet 
it  seemed  clear  that  he  did  not  wish  to  go  away. 
His  answers  were  curt,  yet  he  swept  his  cap  off  his 
head,  implying  by  the  act  a  certain  reverence, 
which  Miss  Eunice's  vanity  permitted  her  to  exult 
at.  Therefore  she  became  more  loquacious  than 
ever.  Some  men  came  up  to  speak  with  the 
prisoner,  but  he  shook  them  off,  and  remained  in  an 


130  MISS  EUNICE'S   GLOVE. 

attitude  of  strict  attention,  with  his  chin  on  his 
hand,  looking  now  at  the  sky,  now  at  the  ground, 
and  now  at  Miss  Eunice. 

In  handling  the  flowers  her  gloves  had  been 
stained,  and  she  now  held  them  in  her  fingers, 
nervously  twisting  them  as  she  talked.  In  the 
course  of  time  she  grew  short  of  subjects,  and,  as 
her  listener  suggested  nothing,  several  lapses 
occurred  ;  in  one  of  them  she  absently  spread  her 
gloves  out  in  her  palms,  meanwhile  wondering 
how  the  English  girl  acted  under  similar  circum- 
stances. 

Suddenly  a  large  hand  slowly  interposed  itself 
between  her  eyes  and  her  gloves,  and  then  with- 
drew, taking  one  of  the  soiled  trifles  with  it. 

She  was  surprised,  but  the  surprise  was  pleasur- 
able. She  said  nothing  at  first.  The  prisoner 
gravely  spread  his  prize  out  upon  his  own  palm, 
and  after  looking  at  it  carefully,  he  rolled  it  up 
into  a  tight  ball  and  thrust  it  deep  in  an  inner 
pocket. 

This  act  made  the  philanthropist  aware  that  she 
had  made  progress.  She  rose  insensibly  to  the 
elevation  of  patron,  and  she  made  promises  to  come 
frequently  and  visit  her  ward  and  to  look  in  upon 
him  when  he  was  at  work  ;  while  saying  this  she 
withdrew  a  little  from  the  shade  his  huge  figure  had 
supplied  her  with. 

He  thrust    his    hands  into  his  pockets,  but  he 
hastily  took  them  out  again.    Still  he  said  nothing 
and  hung  his  head.     It   was  while  she  was  in  thv 


MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE.  131 

mood  of  a  conqueror  that  Miss  Eunice  went  away. 
She  felt  a  touch  of  repugnance  at  stepping  from 
before  his  eyes  a  free  woman,  therefore  she  took 
pains  to  go  when  she  thought  he  was  not  looking. 

She  pointed  him  out  to  a  turnkey,  who  told  her 
he  was  expiating  the  sins  of  assault  and  burglarious 
entry.  Outwardly  Miss  Eunice  looked  grieved, 
but  within  she  exulted  that  he  was  so  emphatically 
a  rascal. 

When  she  emerged  from  the  cool,  shadowy,  and 
frowning  prison  into  the  gay  sunlight,  she  experi- 
enced a  sense  of  bewilderment.  The  significance 
of  a  lock  and  a  bar  seemed  greater  on  quitting 
them  than  it  had  when  she  had  perceived  them 
first.  The  drama  of  imprisonment  and  punishment 
oppressed  her  spirit  with  tenfold  gloom  now  that 
she  gazed  upon  the  brilliancy  and  freedom  of  the 
outer  world.  That  she  and  everybody  around  her 
were  permitted  to  walk  here  and  there  at  will, 
without  question  and  limit,  generated  within  her 
an  indefinite  feeling  of  gratitude  ;  and  the  noise, 
the  colors,  the  creaking  wagons,  the  myriad  voices, 
the  splendid  variety  and  change  of  all  things  ex- 
cited a  profound  but  at  the  same  time  a  mournful 
satisfaction. 

Midway  in  her  return  journey  she  was  shrieked 
at  from  a  carriage,  which  at  once  approached  the 
sidewalk.  Within  it  were  four  gay  maidens  bound 
to  the  Navy-Yard,  from  whence  they  were  to  sail, 
with  a  large  party  of  people  of  nice  assortment,  in 
an  experimental  steamer,  which  was  to  be  made 


132  MISS  EUNICE'S   GLOVE. 

to  go  with  kerosene  lamps,  in  some  way.  They 
seized  upon  her  hands  and  cajoled  her.  Wouldn't 
she  go  ?  They  were  to  sail  down  among  the  islands 
(provided  the  oil  made  the  wheels  and  things  go 
round),  they  were  to  lunch  at  Fort  Warren,  dine  at 
Fort  Independence,  and  dance  at  Fort  Winthrop. 
Come,  please  go.  Oh,  do  !  The  Germanians  were 
to  furnish  the  music. 

Miss  Eunice  sighed,  but  shook  her  head.  She  had 
not  yet  got  the  air  of  the  prison  out  of  her  lungs, 
nor  the  figure  of  her  robber  out  of  her  eyes,  nor 
the  sense  of  horror  and  repulsion  out  of  her  sym- 
pathies. 

At  another  time  she  would  have  gone  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth  with  such  a  happy  crew,  but  now  she 
only  shook  her  head  again  and  was  resolute.  No 
one  could  wring  a  reason  from  her,  and  the  wonder- 
ing quartet  drove  away. 


II. 


BEFORE  the  day  went,  Miss  Eunice  awoke  to  the 
disagreeable  fact  that  her  plans  had  become 
shrunken  and  contracted,  that  a  certain  something 
had  curdled  her  spontaneity,  and  that  her  ardor 
had  flown  out  at  some  crevice  and  had  left  her  with 
the  dry  husk  of  an  intent. 


MISS  EUNICE'S   GLOVE.  133 

She  exerted  herself  to  glow  a  little,  but  she 
failed.  She  talked  well  at  the  tea-table,  but  she 
did  not  tell  about  the  glove.  This  matter  plagued 
her.  She  ran  over  in  her  mind  the  various  doings 
of  Miss  Crofutt,  and  she  could  not  conceal  from 
herself  that  that  lady  had  never  given  a  glove  to 
one  of  her  wretches  ;  no,  nor  had  she  ever  per- 
mitted the  smallest  approach  to  familiarity. 

Miss  Eunice  wept  a  little.  She  was  on  the  eve 
of  despairing. 

In  the  silence  of  the  night  the  idea  presented 
itself  to  her  with  a  disagreeable  baldness.  There 
was  a  thief  over  yonder  that  possessed  a  confidence 
with  her. 

They  had  found  it  necessary  to  shut  this  man  up 
in  iron  and  stone,  and  to  guard  him  with  a  rifle 
with  a  large  leaden  ball  in  it. 

This  villain  was  a  convict.  That  was  a  terrible 
word,  one  that  made  her  blood  chill. 

She,  the  admired  of  hundreds  and  the  beloved  of 
a  family,  had  done  a  secret  and  shameful  thing  of 
which  she  dared  not  tell.  In  these  solemn  hours 
the  madness  of  her  act  appalled  her. 

She  asked  herself  what  might  not  the  fellow  do 
with  the  glove  ?  Surely  he  would  exhibit  it  among 
his  brutal  companions,  and  perhaps  allow  it  to  pass 
to  and  fro  among  them.  They  would  laugh  and 
joke  with  him,  and  he  would  laugh  and  joke  in 
return,  and  no  doubt  he  would  kiss  it  to  their 
great  delight.  Again,  he  might  go  to  her  friends, 
and,  by  working  upon  their  fears  and  by  threaten- 


134  MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE. 

ing  an  exposure  of  her,  extort  large  sums  of  money 
from  them.  Again,  might  he  not  harass  her  by 
constantly  appearing  to  her  at  all  times  and  all 
places  and  making  all  sorts  of  claims  and  de- 
mands ?  Again,  might  he  not,  with  terrible  in- 
genuity, use  it  in  connection  with  some  false  key 
or  some  jack-in-the-box,  or  some  dark-lantern,  or 
something,  in  order  to  effect  his  escape  ;  or  might 
he  not  tell  the  story  times  without  count  to  some 
wretched  curiosity-hunters  who  would  advertise 
her  folly  all  over  the  country,  to  her  perpetual 
misery  ? 

She  became  harnessed  to  this  train  of  thought. 
She  could  not  escape  from  it.  She  reversed  the 
relation  that  she  had  hoped  to  hold  toward  such  a 
man,  and  she  stood  in  his  shadow,  and  not  he  in 
hers. 

In  consequence  of  these  ever-present  fears  and 
sensations,  there  was  one  day,  not  very  far  in  the 
future,  that  she  came  to  have  an  intolerable  dread 
of.  This  day  was  the  one  on  which  the  sentence 
of  the  man  was  to  expire.  She  felt  that  he  would 
surely  search  for  her  ;  and  that  he  would  find  her 
there  could  be  no  manner  of  doubt,  for,  in  her 
surplus  of  confidence,  she  had  told  him  her  full 
name,  inasmuch  as  he  had  told  her  his. 

When  she  contemplated  this  new  source  of 
terror,  her  peace  of  mind  fled  directly.  So  did  her 
plans  for  philanthropic  labor.  Not  a  shred  re- 
mained. The  anxiety  began  to  tell  upon  her,  and 
she  took  to  peering  out  of  a  certain  shaded  window 


MISS  EUNICE'S   GLOVE.  135 

that  commanded  the  square  in  front  of  her  house. 
It  was  not  long  before  she  remembered  that  for 
good  behavior  certain  days  were  deducted  from 
the  convicts'  terms  of  imprisonment.  Therefore, 
her  ruffian  might  be  released  at  a  moment  not  an- 
ticipated by  her.  He  might,  in  fact,  be  discharged 
on  any  day.  He  might  be  on  his  way  toward  her 
even  now. 

She  was  not  very  far  from  right,  for  suddenly 
the  man  did  appear. 

He  one  day  turned  the  corner,  as  she  was  looking 
out  at  the  window  fearing  that  she  should  see  him, 
and  came  in  a  diagonal  direction  across  the  hot, 
flagged  square. 

Miss  Eunice's  pulse  leaped  into  the  hundreds. 
She  glued  her  eyes  upon  him.  There  was  no  mis- 
take. There  was  the  red  face,  the  evil  eyes,  the 
large  mouth,  the  gray  hair,  and  the  massive  frame. 

What  should  she  do  ?  Should  she  hide  ?  Should 
she  raise  the  sash  and  shriek  to  the  police  ?  Should 
she  arm  herself  with  a  knife  ?  or — what  ?  In  the 
name  of  mercy,  what  ?  She  glared  into  the  street. 
He  came  on  steadily,  and  she  lost  him,  for  he 
passed  beneath  her.  In  a  moment  she  heard  the 
jangle  of  the  bell.  She  was  petrified.  She  heard 
his  heavy  step  below.  He  had  gone  into  the  little 
reception-room  beside  the  door.  He  crossed  to 
a  sofa  opposite  the  mantel.  She  then  heard  him 
get  up  and  go  to  a  window,  then  he  walked  about, 
and  then  sat  down  ;  probably  upon  a  red  leather 
seat  beside  the  window. 


136  MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE. 

Meanwhile  the  servant  was  coming  to  announce 
him.  From  some  impulse,  which  was  a  strange 
and  sudden  one,  she  eluded  the  maid,  and  rushed 
headlong  upon  her  danger.  She  never  remembered 
her  descent  of  the  stairs.  She  awoke  to  cool  con- 
templation of  matters  only  to  find  herself  entering 
the  room. 

Had  she  made  a  mistake,  after  all  ?  It  was  a 
question  that  was  asked  and  answered  in  a  flash. 
This  man  was  pretty  erect  and  self-assured,  but  she 
discerned  in  an  instant  that  there  was  needed  but 
the  blue  woollen  jacket  and  the  tall  cap  to  make 
him  the  wretch  of  a  month  before. 

He  said  nothing.  Neither  did  she.  He  stood 
up  and  occupied  himself  by  twisting  a  button  upon 
his  waistcoat.  She,  fearing  a  threat  or  a  demand, 
stood  bridling  to  receive  it.  She  looked  at  him 
from  top  to  toe  with  parted  lips. 

He  glanced  at  her.  She  stepped  back.  He  put 
the  rim  of  his  cap  in  his  mouth  and  bit  it  once  or 
twice,  and  then  looked  out  at  the  window.  Still 
neither  spoke.  A  voice  at  this  instant  seemed 
impossible. 

He  glanced  again  like  a  flash.  She  shrank,  and 
put  her  hands  upon  the  bolt.  Presently  he  began 
to  stir.  He  put  out  one  foot,  and  gradually  moved 
forward.  He  made  another  step.  He  was  going 
away.  He  had  almost  reached  the  door,  when 
Miss  Eunice  articulated,  in  a  confused  whisper, 
"  My — my  glove  ;  I  wish  you  would  give  me  my 
glove." 


MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE.  137 

He  stopped,  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her,  and  after 
passing  his  fingers  up  and  down  upon  the  outside 
of  his  coat,  said,  with  deliberation,  in  a  husky 
voice,  "  No,  mum.  I'm  goin'  fur  to  keep  it  as  long 
as  I  live,  if  it  takes  two  thousand  years." 

"  Keep  it  !"  she  stammered. 

"  Keep  it,"  he  replied. 

He  gave  her  an  untranslatable  look.  It  neither 
frightened  her  nor  permitted  her  to  demand  the 
glove  more  emphatically.  She  felt  her  cheeks  and 
temples  and  her  hands  grow  cold,  and  midway  in 
the  process  of  fainting  she  saw  him  disappear.  He 
vanished  quietly.  Deliberation  and  respect  char- 
acterized his  movements,  and  there  was  not  so 
much  as  a  jar  of  the  outer  door. 

Poor  philanthropist  ! 

This  incident  nearly  sent  her  to  a  sick-bed.  She 
fully  expected  that  her  secret  would  appear  in  the 
newspapers  in  full,  and  she  lived  in  dread  of  the 
onslaught  of  an  angry  and  outraged  society. 

The  more  she  reflected  upon  what  her  possi- 
bilities had  been  and  how  she  had  misused  them,  the 
iller  and  the  more  distressed  she  got.  She  grew 
thin  and  spare  of  flesh.  Her  friends  became  fright- 
ened. They  began  to  dose  her  and  to  coddle  her. 
She  looked  at  them  with  eyes  full  of  supreme  mel- 
ancholy, and  she  frequently  wept  upon  their  shoul- 
ders. 

In  spite  of  her  precautions,  however,  a  thunder- 
bolt slipped  in. 

One  day  her  father  read  at  the  table  an  item  that 


138  MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE. 

met  his  eye.  He  repeated  it  aloud,  on  account  of 
the  peculiar  statement  in  the  last  line  : 

"Detained  on  suspicion.  — A  rough-looking 
fellow,  who  gave  the  name  of  Gorman,  was 
arrested  on  the  high-road  to  Tuxbridge  Springs  for 
suspected  complicity  in  some  recent  robberies  in 
the  neighborhood.  He  was  fortunately  able  to 
give  a  pretty  clear  account  of  his  late  whereabouts, 
and  he  was  permitted  to  depart  with  a  caution  from 
the  justice.  Nothing  was  found  upon  him  but  a 
few  coppers  and  an  old  kid  glove  wrapped  in  a  bit 
of  paper." 

Miss  Eunice's  soup  spilled.  This  was  too  much, 
and  she  fainted  this  time  in  right  good  earnest  ; 
and  she  straightway  became  an  invalid  of  the 
settled  type.  They  put  her  to  bed.  The  doctor 
told  her  plainly  that  he  knew  she  had  a  secret,  but 
she  looked  at  him  so  imploringly  that  he  refrained 
from  telling  his  fancies  ;  but  he  ordered  an  imme- 
diate change  of  air.  It  was  settled  at  once  that 
she  should  go  to  the  "  Springs" — to  Tuxbridge 
Springs.  The  doctor  knew  there  were  young 
people  there,  also  plenty  of  dancing.  So  she 
journeyed  thither  with  her  pa  and  her  ma  and  with 
pillows  and  servants. 

They  were  shown  to  their  rooms,  and  strong 
porters  followed  with  the  luggage.  One  of  them 
had  her  huge  trunk  upon  his  shoulder.  He  put  it 
carefully  upon  the  floor,  and  by  so  doing  he  dis- 
closed the  ex-prisoner  to  Miss  Eunice  and  Miss 
Eunice  to  himself.  He  was  astonished,  but  he 


MISS  EUNICE'S   GLOVE.  139 

remained  silent.  But  she  must  needs  be  frightened 
and  fall  into  another  fit  of  trembling.  After  an 
awkward  moment  he  went  away,  while  she  called 
to  her  father  and  begged  piteously  to  be  taken 
away  from  Tuxbridge  Springs  instantly.  There 
was  no  appeal.  She  hated,  hated,  HATED  Tux- 
bridge  Springs,  and  she  should  die  if  she  were 
forced  to  remain.  She  rained  tears.  She  would 
give  no  reason,  but  she  could  not  stay.  No, 
millions  on  millions  could  not  persuade  her  ;  go 
she  must.  There  was  no  alternative,  The  party 
quitted  the  place  within  the  hour,  bag  and  bag- 
gage. Miss  Eunice's  father  was  perplexed  and 
angry,  and  her  mother  would  have  been  angry  also 
if  she  had  dared. 

They  went  to  other  springs  and  stayed  a  month, 
but  the  patient's  fright  increased  each  day,  and  so 
did  her  fever.  She  was  full  of  distractions.  In 
her  dreams  everybody  laughed  at  her  as  the  one 
who  had  flirted  with  a  convict.  She  would  ever 
be  pursued  with  the  tale  of  her  foolishness  and 
stupidity.  Should  he  ever  recover  her  self-respect 
and  confidence  ? 

She  had  become  radically  selfish.  She  forgot  the 
old  ideas  of  noble-heartedness  and  self-denial,  and 
her  temper  had  become  weak  and  childish.  She 
did  not  meet  her  puzzle  face  to  face,  but  she  ran 
away  from  it  with  her  hands  over  her  ears.  Miss 
Crofutt  stared  at  her,  and  therefore  she  threw  Miss 
Crofutt's  book  into  the  fire. 

After  two  days  of  unceasing   debate,  she  called 


140  MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE. 

her  parents,  and  with  the  greatest  agitation  told 
them  all. 

It  so  happened,  in  this  case,  that  events,  to  use 
a  railroad  phrase,  made  connection. 

No  sooner  had  Miss  Eunice  told  her  story  than 
the  man  came  again.  This  time  he  was  accom- 
panied by  a  woman. 

"  Only  get  my  glove  away  from  him,"  sobbed 
the  unhappy  one,  "  that  is  all  I  ask  !"  This  was  a 
fine  admission  !  It  was  thought  proper  to  bring 
an  officer,  and  so  a  strong  one  was  sent  for. 

Meanwhile  the  couple  had  been  admitted  to  the 
parlor.  Miss  Eunice's  father  stationed  the  officei 
at  one  door,  while  he,  with  a  pistol,  stood  at  the 
other.  Then  Miss  Eunice  went  into  the  apart- 
ment. She  was  wasted,  weak,  and  nervous.  The 
two  villains  got  up  as  she  came  in,  and  bowed. 
She  began  to  tremble  as  usual,  and  laid  hold  upon 
the  mantelpiece.  "  How  much  do  you  want  ?"  she 
gasped. 

The  man  gave  the  woman  a  push  with  his  fore- 
finger. She  stepped  forward  quickly  with  her 
crest  up.  Her  eyes  turned,  and  she  fixed  a 
vixenish  look  upon  Miss  Eunice.  She  suddenly 
shot  her  hand  out  from  beneath  her  shawl  and  ex- 
tended it  at  full  length.  Across  it  lay  Miss 
Eunice's  glove,  very  much  soiled. 

"  Was  that  thing  ever  yours  ?"  demanded  the 
woman,  shrilly. 

"  Y-yes,"  said  Miss  Eunice,  faintly. 

The  woman  seemed   (if  the  apt  word   is  to   be 


MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE.  141 

excused)  staggered.  She  withdrew  her  hand,  and 
looked  the  glove  over.  The  man  shook  his  head, 
and  began  to  laugh  behind  his  hat. 

"And  did  you  ever  give  it  to  him?"  pursued 
the  woman,  pointing  over  her  shoulder  with  her 
thumb. 

Miss  Eunice  nodded. 

"  Of  your  own  free  will  ?" 

After  a  moment  of  silence  she  ejaculated,  in  a 
whisper,  "  Yes." 

"  Now  wait,"  said  the  man,  coming  to  the  front ; 
"  'nough  has  been  said  by  you."  He  then 
addressed  himself  to  Miss  Eunice  with  the  remains 
of  his  laugh  still  illuminating  his  face. 

"  This  is  my  wife's  sister,  and  she's  one  of  the 
jealous  kind.  I  love  my  wife"  (here  he  became 
grave),  "and  I  never  showed  her  any  kind  of 
slight  that  I  know  of.  I've  always  been  fair  to 
her,  and  she's  always  been  fair  to  me.  Plain 
sailin*  so  far  ;  I  never  kep'  anything  from  her — 
but  this."  He  reached  out  and  took  the  glove 
from  the  woman,  and  spread  it  out  upon  his  own 
palm,  as  Miss  Eunice  had  seen  him  do  once  before. 
He  looked  at  it  thoughtfully.  "  I  wouldn't  tell  her 
about  this  ;  no,  never.  She  was  never  very  partic- 
ular to  ask  me  ;  that's  where  her  trust  in  me  came 
in.  She  knowed  I  was  above  doing  anything  out  of 
the  way — that  is — I  mean — "  He  stammered  and 
blushed,  and  then  rushed  on  volubly.  "  But  her 
sister  here  thought  I  paid  too  much  attention  to  it ; 
she  thought  I  looked  at  it  too  much,  and  kep'  it 


J42  MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE. 

secret.  So  she  nagged  and  nagged,  and  kept  the 
pitch  boilin'  until  I  had  to  let  it  out  :  I  told  'em  " 
(Miss  Eunice  shivered).  "  '  No,'  says  she,  my 
wife's  sister,  '  that  won't  do,  Gorman.  That's 
chaff,  and  I'm  too  old  a  bird.'  Ther'fore  I  fetched 
her  straight  to  you,  so  she  could  put  the  question 
direct." 

He  stopped  a  moment  as  if  in  doubt  how  to  go 
on.  Miss  Eunice  began  to  open  her  eyes,  and  she 
released  the  mantel.  The  man  resumed  with  some- 
thing like  impressiveness  : 

"When  you  last  held  that,"  said  he,  slowly, 
balancing  the  glove  in  his  hand,  "  I  was  a  wicked 
man  with  bad  intentions  through  and  through. 
When  I  first  held  it  I  became  an  honest  man,  with 
good  intentions." 

A  burning  blush  of  shame  covered  Miss  Eunice's 
face  and  neck. 

"  An'  as  I  kep'  it  my  intentions  went  on  im- 
provin'  and  improving  till  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
behave  myself  in  future,  forever.  Do  you  under- 
stand ? — forever.  No  backslidin',  no  hitchin',  no 
slippin'-up.  I  take  occasion  to  say,  miss,  that  I 
was  beset  time  and  again  ;  that  the  instant  I  set 
my  foot  outside  them  prison-gates,  over  there,  my 
old  chums  got  round  me  ;  but  I  shook  my  head. 
'  No/  says  I,  '  I  won't  go  back  on  the  glove.'  ' 

Miss  Eunice  hung  her  head.  The  two  had  ex- 
changed places,  she  thought  ;  she  was  the  criminal 
and  he  the  judge. 

"An'  what  is  more,"    continued   he,    with  the 


MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE.  143 

same  weight  in  his  tone,  "  I  not  only  kep'  sight  of 
the  glove,  but  I  kep'  sight  of  the  generous  sperrit 
that  gave  it.  I  didn't  let  that  go.  I  never  forgot 
what  you  meant.  I  knowed — I  knowed,"  repeated 
he,  lifting  his  forefinger — "  I  knowed  a  time 
would  come  when  there  wouldn't  be  any  enthoosi- 
asm,  any  '  hurrah/  and  then  perhaps  you'd  be 
sorry  you  was  so  kind  to  me  ;  an'  the  time  did 
come." 

Miss  Eunice  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and 
wept  aloud. 

"  But  did  I  quit  the  glove  ?  No,  mum.  I  held 
on  to  it.  It  was  what  I  fought  by.  I  wasn't  going 
to  give  it  up,  because  it  was  asked  for.  All  the 
police-officers  in  the  city  could  n't  have  took  it  from 
me,  I  put  it  deep  into  my  pocket,  and  I  walked 
out.  It  was  differcult,  miss.  But  I  come  through. 
The  glove  did  it.  It  helped  me  stand  out  against 
temptation  when  it  was  strong.  If  I  looked  at  it, 
I  remembered  that  once  there  was  a  pure  heart  that 
pitied  me.  It  cheered  me  up.  After  a  while  I 
kinder  got  out  of  the  mud.  Then  I  got  work. 
The  glove  again.  Then  a  girl  that  knowed  me 
before  I  took  to  bad  ways  married  me,  and  no  ques- 
tions asked.  Then  I  just  took  the  glove  into  a  dark 
corner  and  blessed  it." 

Miss  Eunice  was  belittled. 

A  noise  was  heard  in  the  hallway.  Miss 
Eunice's  father  and  the  policeman  were  going 
away. 

The  awkwardness  of  the  succeeding  silence  was 


144  MISS  EUNICE'S  GLOVE. 

relieved  by  the  moving  of  the  man  and  the  woman. 
They  had  done  their  errand,  and  were  going. 

Said  Miss  Eunice,  with  the  faint  idea  of  making 
a  practical  apology  to  her  visitor,  "  I  shall  go  to 
the  prison  once  a  week  after  this,  I  think." 

"  Then  may  God  bless  ye,  miss,"  said  the  man. 
He  came  back  with  tears  in  his  eyes  and  took  her 
proffered  hand  for  an  instant.  Then  he  and  his 
wife's  sister  went  away. 

Miss  Eunice's  remaining  spark  of  charity  at  once 
crackled  and  burst  into  a  flame.  There  is  sure  to 
be  a  little  something  that  is  bad  in  everybody's 
philanthropy  when  it  is  first  put  to  use  ;  it  requires 
to  be  filed  down  like  a  faulty  casting  before  it  will 
run  without  danger  to  anybody.  Samaritanism 
that  goes  off  with  half  a  charge  is  sure  to  do  great 
mischief  somewhere  ;  but  Miss  Eunice's,  now  prop- 
erly corrected,  henceforth  shot  off  at  the  proper 
end,  and  inevitably  hit  the  mark.  She  purchased 
a  new  Crofutt. 


BROTHER  SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP. 

BY  HAROLD  FREDERIC. 


I  WHO  tell  this  story,  am  called  Brother  Sebas- 
5  tian.  This  name  was  given  me  more  than 
forty  years  ago,  while  Louis  Philippe  was  still 
king.  My  other  name  has  been  buried  so  long  that 
I  have  nearly  forgotten  it.  I  think  that  my  people 
are  dead.  At  least  I  have  heard  nothing  from 
them  in  many  years.  My  reputation  has  always 
been  that  of  a  misanthrope — if  not  that,  then  of  a 
dreamer.  In  the  seminary  I  had  no  intimates.  In 
the  order,  for  I  am  a  Brother  of  the  Christian 
Schools,  my  associates  are  polite — nothing  more.  I 
seem  to  be  outside  their  social  circles,  their  plans, 
their  enjoyments.  True,  I  am  an  old  man  now. 
But  in  other  years  it  was  the  same.  All  my  life  I 
have  been  in  solitude. 

To  this  there  is  a  single  exception — one  star  shin- 
ing in  the  blackness.     And  my  career  has  been  so 

***  Utica  Observer,  iSjg. 


146     BROTHER   SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP. 

bleak  that,  although  it  ended  in  deeper  sadness  than 
I  had  known  before,  I  look  back  to  the  episode  with 
gratitude.  The  bank  of  clouds  which  shut  out  this 
sole  light  of  my  life  quickened  its  brilliancy  before 
they  submerged  it. 

After  the  terrible  siege  of  '71,  when  the  last  Ger- 
man was  gone,  and  our  houses  had  breasted  the 
ordeal  of  the  Commune,  I  was  sent  to  the  South. 
The  Superior  thought  my  cheeks  were  ominously 
hollow,  and  suspected  threats  of  consumption  in 
my  cough.  So  I  was  to  go  to  the  Mediterranean,  and 
try  its  milder  air.  I  liked  the  change.  Paris,  with 
its  gloss  of  noisy  gayety  and  its  substance  of  scepti- 
cal heartlessness,  was  repugnant  to  me.  Perhaps 
it  was  because  of  this  that  Brother  Sebastian  had 
been  mured  up  in  the  capital  two  thirds  of  his  life. 
If  our  surroundings  are  too  congenial  we  neglect 
the  work  set  before  us.  But  no  matter;  to  the 
coast  I  went. 

My  new  home  was  a  long-established  house, 
spacious,  venerable,  and  dreary.  It  was  on  the  out- 
skirts of  an  ancient  town,  which  was  of  far  more 
importance  before  our  Lord  was  born  than  it  has 
ever  been  since.  We  had  little  to  do.  There  were 
nine  brothers,  a  handful  of  resident  orphans,  and 
some  three-score  pupils.  Ragged,  stupid,  big-eyed 
urchins  they  were,  altogether  different  from  the 
keen  Paris  boys.  For  that  matter,  every  feature  of 
my  new  home  was  odd.  The  heat  of  the  summer 
was  scorching  in  its  intensity.  The  peasants  were 
much  more  respectful  to  our  cloth,  and,  as  to  ap- 


BROTHER   SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP.      147 

pearance,  looked  like  figures  from  Murillo's  can- 
vases. The  foliage,  the  wine,  the  language,  the 
manners  of  the  people — everything  was  changed. 
This  interested  me,  and  my  morbidness  vanished. 
The  Director  was  delighted  with  my  improved  con- 
dition. Poor  man  !  he  was  positive  that  my  cheeks 
had  puffed  out  perceptibly  after  the  first  two 
months.  So  the  winter  came — a  mild,  wet,  muggy 
winter,  wholly  unlike  my  favorite  sharp  season  in 
the  North. 

We  were  killing  time  in  the  library  one  after- 
noon, the  Director  and  a  Swiss  Brother  sitting  by 
the  lamp  reading,  I  standing  at  one  of  the  tall,  nar- 
row windows,  drumming  on  the  panes  and  dream- 
ing. The  view  was  not  an  inspiring  one.  There 
was  a  long  horizontal  line  of  pale  yellow  sky  and 
another  of  flat,  black  land,  out  of  which  an  occa- 
sional poplar  raised  itself  solemnly.  The  great 
mass  below  the  stripes  was  brown  ;  above,  gloomy 
gray.  Close  under  the  window  two  boys  were 
playing  in  the  garden  of  the  house.  I  recall  dis- 
tinctly that  they  threw  armfuls  of  wet  fallen 
leaves  at  each  other  with  a  great  shouting.  While 
I  stood  thus,  the  Brother  Servitor,  Abonus,  came 
in  and  whispered  to  the  Director.  He  always 
whispered.  It  was  not  fraternal,  but  I  did  not  like 
this  Abonus. 

"Send  him  up  here,"  said  the  Director.  Then  I 
remembered  that  I  had  heard  the  roll  of  a  carriage 
and  the  bell  ring,  a  few  moments  before.  Abonus 
came  in  again.  Behind  him  there  was  some  one 


148     BROTHER   SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP. 

else,  whose  footsteps  had  the  hesitating  sound  of  a 
stranger's.  Then  I  heard  the  Director's  voice  : 

"  You  are  from  Algiers  ?" 

"I  am,  Brother." 

"  Your  name  ?" 

"  Edouard,  Brother.' ' 

"Well,  tell  me  more." 

"  I  was  under  orders  to  be  in  Paris  in  January, 
Brother.  As  my  health  was  poor,  I  received  per- 
mission to  come  back  to  France  this  autumn.  At 
Marseilles  I  was  instructed  to  come  here.  So  I  am 
here.  I  have  these  papers  from  the  Mother  house, 
and  from  Etienne,  Director,  of  Algiers." 

Something  in  the  voice  seemed  peculiar  to  me. 
I  turned  and  examined  the  new-comer.  He  stood 
behind  and  to  one  side  of  the  Director,  who  was 
laboriously  deciphering  some  papers  through  his 
big  horn  spectacles.  The  light  was  not  very  bright, 
but  there  was  enough  to  see  a  wonderfully  hand- 
some face,  framed  in  dazzling  black  curls.  Perhaps 
it  looked  the  more  beautiful  because  contrasted 
with  the  shaven  gray  poll  and  surly  features  of 
grim  Abonus.  But  to  me  it  was  a  dream  of  St. 
John  the  Evangel.  The  eyes  of  the  face  were 
lowered  upon  the  Director,  so  I  could  only  guess 
their  brilliancy.  The  features  were  those  of  an  ex- 
treme youth — round,  soft,  and  delicate.  The  ex- 
pression was  one  of  utter  fatigue,  almost  pain.  It 
bore  out  the  statement  of  ill-health. 

The  Director  had  finished  his  reading.  He 
lifted  his  head  now  and  surveyed  the  stranger  in 


BROTHER   SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP.      149 

turn.  Finally,  stretching  out  his  fat  hand,  he 
said  : 

"  You  are  welcome,  Brother  Edouard.  I  see  the 
letter  says  you  have  had  no  experience  except  with 
the  youngest  children.  Brother  Photius  does  that 
now.  We  will  have  you  rest  for  a  time.  Then  we 
will  see  about  it.  Meanwhile  I  will  turn  you  over 
to  the  care  of  good  Abonus,  who  will  give  you  one 
of  the  north  rooms." 

So  the  two  went  out,  Abonus  shuffling  his  feet 
disagreeably.  It  was  strange  that  he  could  do 
nothing  to  please  me. 

"  Brother  Sebastian,"  said  the  Director,  as  the 
door  closed,  "it  is  curious  that  they  should  have 
sent  me  a  tenth  man.  Why,  I  lie  awake  now  to 
invent  pretences  of  work  for  those  I  have  already. 
I  will  give  up  all  show  of  teaching  presently,  and 
give  out  that  I  keep  a  hospital — a  retreat  for  ailing 
brothers.  Still,  this  Edouard  is  a  pretty  boy." 

"  Very." 

"  Etienne's  letter  says  he  is  twenty  and  a  Sa- 
voyard. He  speaks  like  a  Parisian." 

"  Very  likely  he  is  seminary  bred,"  put  in  the 
Swiss. 

"Whatever  he  is,  I  like  his  looks,"  said  our 
Superior.  This  good  man  liked  every  one.  His 
was  the  placid,  easy  Alsatian  nature,  prone  to  find 
goodness  in  all  things — even  crabbed  Abonus.  The 
Director,  or,  as  he  was  known,  Brother  Elysee,  was 
a  stout,  round  little  man,  with  a  fine  face  and  imper- 
turbable good  spirits.  He  was  adored  by  all  his 


150     BROTHER   SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP. 

subordinates.     But  I  fancy  he  did  not  advance  in 
favor  at  Paris  very  rapidly. 

I  liked  Edouard  from  the  first.  The  day  after 
he  came  we  were  together  much,  and,  when  we 
parted  after  vespers,  I  was  conscious  of  a  vast  re- 
spect for  this  new-comer.  He  was  bright,  ready 
spoken,  and  almost  a  man  of  the  world.  Compared 
with  my  dull  career,  his  short  life  had  been  one 
of  positive  gayety.  He  had  seen  Frederic  le  Maitre 
at  the  Comedie  Frangaise.  He  had  been  at  Court 
and  spoken  with  the  Prince  Imperial.  He  was  on 
terms  of  intimacy  with  Monsignori,  and  had  been 

protege  of  the  sainted  Darboy.  It  was  a  rare 
pleasure  to  hear  him  talk  of  these  things. 

Before  this,  the  ceaseless  shifting  of  brothers 
from  one  house  to  another  had  been  indifferent  to 
me.  For  the  hundreds  of  strangers  who  came  and 
went  in  the  Paris  house  on  Oudinot  Street  I  cared 
absolutely  nothing,  I  did  not  suffer  their  entrance 
nor  their  exit  to  excite  me.  This  was  so  much  the 
case  that  they  called  me  a  machine.  But  with 
Edouard  this  was  different.  I  grew  to  love  the  boy 
from  the  first  evening,  when,  as  he  left  my  room,  I 
caught  myself  saying,  "  I  shall  be  sorry  when  he 
goes."  He  seemed  to  be  fond  of  me,  too.  For 
that  matter  most  of  the  brothers  petted  him,  Elysee 
especially.  But  I  was  flattered  that  he  chose  me 
as  his  particular  friend.  For  the  first  time  my 
heart  had  opened. 

We  were  alone  one  evening  after  the  holidays. 
It  was  cold  without,  but  in  my  room  it  was  warm 


BROTHER   SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP.      151 

and  bright.  The  fire  crackled  merrily,  and  the 
candles  gave  out  a  mellow  and  pleasant  light.  The 
Director  had  gone  up  to  Paris,  and  his  mantle  had 
fallen  on  me.  Edouard  sat  with  his  feet  stretched 
to  the  fender,  his  curly  head  buried  in  the  great 
curved  back  of  my  invalid  chair,  the  red  fire-light 
reflected  on  his  childish  features.  I  took  pleasure 
in  looking  at  him.  He  looked  at  the  coals  and 
knit  his  brows  as  if  in  a  puzzle.  I  often  fancied 
that  something  weightier  than  the  usual  troubles  of 
life  weighed  upon  him.  At  last  he  spoke,  just  as  I 
was  about  to  question  him  : 

"  Are  you  afraid  to  die,  Sebastian  ?" 

Not  knowing  what  else  to  say,  I  answered,  "  No, 
my  child/' 

"  I  wonder  if  you  enjoy  life  in  community  ?" 

This  was  still  stranger.  I  could  but  reply  that  I 
had  never  known  any  other  life  ;  that  I  was  fitted 
for  nothing  else. 

"  But  still,"  persisted  he,  "  would  you  not  like  to 
leave  it — to  have  a  career  of  your  own  before  you 
die  ?  Do  you  think  this  is  what  a  man  is  created 
for — to  give  away  his  chance  to  live?" 

"Edouard,  you  are  interrogating  your  own 
conscience,"  I  answered.  "These  are  questions 
which  you  must  have  answered  yourself,  before  you 
took  your  vows.  When  you  answered  them,  you 
sealed  them." 

Perhaps  I  spoke  too  harshly,  for  he  colored  and 
drew  up  his  feet.  Such  shapely  little  feet  they 
were.  I  felt  ashamed  of  my  crustiness. 


152     BROTHER   SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP. 

<l  But,  Edouard,"  I  added,  "your  vows  are  those 
of  the  novitiate.  You  are  not  yet  twenty-eight. 
You  have  still  the  right  to  ask  yourself  these 
things.  The  world  is  very  fair  to  men  of  your  age. 
Do  not  dream  that  I  was  angry  with  you." 

He  sat  gazing  into  the  fire.  His  face  wore  a 
strange,  far-away  expression,  as  he  reached  forth 
his  hand,  in  a  groping  way,  and  rested  it  on  my 
knee,  clutching  the  gown  nervously.  Then  he 
spoke  slowly,  seeking  for  words,  and  keeping  his 
eye  on  the  flames  : 

"  You  have  been  good  to  me,  Brother  Sebastian. 
Let  me  ask  you  :  May  I  tell  you  something  in 
confidence — something  which  shall  never  pass  your 
lips?  I  mean  it." 

He  had  turned  and  poured  those  marvellous  eyes 
into  mine  with  irresistible  magnetism.  Of  course 
I  said,  "  Speak!"  and  I  said  it  without  the  slightest 
hesitation. 

"  I  am  not  a  Christian  Brother.  I  do  not  belong 
to  your  order.  I  have  no  claim  upon  the  hospitality 
of  this  roof.  I  am  an  impostor  !" 

He  ejected  these  astounding  sentences  with  an 
energy  almost  fierce,  gripping  my  knee  meanwhile. 
Then,  as  suddenly,  his  grasp  relaxed,  and  he  fell 
to  weeping  bitterly. 

I  stared  at  him  solemnly,  in  silence.  My  tongue 
seemed  paralyzed.  Confusing  thoughts  whirled  in 
a  maze  unbidden  through  my  head.  I  could  say 
nothing.  But  a  strange  impulse  prompted  me  to 
reach  out  and  take  his  hot  hand  in  mine.  It  was 


BROTHER   SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP.      153 

piteous  to  hear  him  sobbing,  his  head  upon  his 
raised  arm,  his  whole  frame  quivering  with  emotion. 
I  had  never  seen  any  one  weep  like  that  before. 
So  I  sat  dumb,  trying  in  vain  to  answer  this 
bewildering  self-accusation.  At  last  there  came 
out  of  the  folds  of  the  chair  the  words,  faint  and 
tear-choked  : 

"You  have  promised  me  secrecy,  and  you  will 
keep  your  word  ;  but  you  will  hate  me." 

"Why  no,  no,  Edouard,  not  hate  you,"  I  answer- 
ed, scarcely  knowing  what  I  said.  I  did  not  com- 
prehend it  at  all.  There  was  nothing  more  for 
me  to  say.  Finally,  when  some  power  of  thought 
returned,  I  asked : 

"  Of  all  things,  my  poor  boy,  why  should  you 
choose  such  a  dreary  life  as  this  ?  What  possible 
reason  led  you  to  enter  the  community  ?  What 
attractions  has  it  for  you  ?" 

Edouard  turned  again  from  the  fire  to  me.  His 
eyes  sparkled.  His  teeth  were  tight  set. 

"Why?  Why?  I  will  tell  you  why,  Brother 
Sebastian.  Can  you  not  understand  how  a  poor 
hunted  beast  should  rejoice  to  find  shelter  in  such 
an  out-of-the-way  place,  among  such  kind  men,  in 
the  grave  of  this  cloister  life  ?  I  have  not  told  you 
half  enough.  Do  you  not  know  in  the  outside 
world,  in  Toulon,  or  Marseilles,  or  that  fine  Paris 
of  yours,  there  is  a  price  on  my  head  ? — or  no,  not 
that,  but  enemies  that  are  looking  for  me,  searching 
everywhere,  turning  every  little  stone  for  the  poor 
privilege  of  making  me  suffer  ?  And  do  you  know 


154     BROTHER   SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP* 

that  these  enemies  wear  shakos,  and  are  called  gens 
d'armes  ?  Would  you  be  pleased  to  learn  that  it  is 
a  prison  I  escape  by  coming  here  ?  Now,  will  you 
hate  me  ?" 

The  boy  had  risen  from  his  chair.  He  spoke 
hurriedly,  almost  hysterically,  his  eyes  snapping  at 
mine  like  coals,  his  curls  dishevelled,  his  fingers 
curved  and  stiffened  like  the  talons  of  a  hawk.  I 
had  never  seen  such  intense  earnestness  in  a  human 
face.  Passions  like  these  had  never  penetrated  the 
convent  walls  before. 

While  I  sat  dumb  before  them,  Edouard  left  the 
room.  I  was  conscious  of  his  exit  only  in  a  vague 
way.  For  hours  I  sat  in  my  chair  beside  the  grate 
thinking,  or  trying  to  think.  You  can  see  readily 
that  I  was  more  than  a  little  perplexed.  In  the 
absence  of  Elysee,  I  was  director.  The  manage- 
ment of  the  house,  its  good  fame,  its  discipline,  all 
rested  on  my  shoulders.  And  to  be  confronted  by 
such  an  abyss  as  this !  I  could  do  absolutely 
nothing.  The  boy  had  tied  my  tongue  by  the 
pledge.  Besides,  had  I  been  unsworn,  I  am  sure 
the  idea  of  exposure  would  never  have  come  to 
me.  It  was  late  before  I  retired  that  night.  And 
I  recall  with  terrible  distinctness  the  chaos  of 
brain  and  faculty  which  ushered  in  a  restless  sleep 
almost  as  dawn  was  breaking. 

I  had  fancied  that  Brother  Edouard  would  find 
life  intolerable  in  community  after  his  revelation 
to  me.  He  would  be  chary  of  meeting  me  before 
the  brothers ;  would  be  constantly  tortured  by  fear 


BROTHER   SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP.      155 

of  detection.  As  I  saw  this  prospect  of  the  poor 
innocent — for  it  was  absurd  to  think  of  him  as 
anything  else — dreading  exposure  at  each  step  in 
his  false  life,  shrinking  from  observation,  biting 
his  tongue  at  every  word — I  was  greatly  moved  by 
pity.  Judge  my  surprise,  then,  when  I  saw  him 
the  next  morning  join  in  the  younger  brothers' 
regular  walk  around  the  garden,  joking  and  laugh- 
ing as  I  had  never  seen  before.  On  his  right  was 
thin,  sickly  Victor,  rest  his  soul !  and  on  the  other 
pursy,  thick-necked  John,  as  merry  a  soul  as  Cork 
ever  turned  out.  And  how  they  laughed,  even  the 
frail  consumptive  !  It  was  a  pleasure  to  see  his 
blue  eyes  brighten  with  enjoyment  and  his  warm 
cheeks  blush.  Above  John's  queer,  Irish  chuckle, 
I  heard  Edouard's  voice,  with  its  dainty  Parisian 
accent,  retailing  jokes  and  leading  in  the  laughter. 
The  tramp  was  stretched  out  longer  than  usual,  so 
pleasant  did  they  find  it.  At  this  development  I 
was  much  amazed. 

The  same  change  was  noticeable  in  all  that 
Edouard  did.  Instead  of  the  apathy  with  which  he 
had  discharged  his  nominal  duties,  his  baby  pupils 
(for  Photius  had  gone  to  Peru)  now  became  be- 
witched with  him.  He  told  them  droll  stories,  in- 
cited their  rivalry  in  study  by  instituting  prizes 
for  which  they  struggled  monthly,  and,  in  short, 
metamorphosed  his  department.  The  change  spread 
to  himself.  His  cheeks  took  on  a  ruddier  hue,  the 
sparkle  of  his  black  eyes  mellowed  into  a  calm  and 
steady  radiance.  There  was  no  trace  of  feverish 


156     BROTHER   SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP. 

elation  which,  in  solitude,  recoiled  to  the  brink  of 
despair.  He  sang  to  himself  evenings  in  his 
dormitory,  clearly  and  with  joy.  His  step  was  as 
elastic  as  that  of  any  school-boy.  I  often  thought 
upon  this  change,  and  meditated  how  beautiful  an 
illustration  of  confession's  blessings  it  furnished. 
Frequently  we  were  alone,  but  he  never  referred 
again  to  that  memorable  evening,  even  by  impli- 
cation. At  first  I  dreaded  to  have  the  door  close 
upon  us,  feeling  that  he  must  perforce  seek  to 
take  up  the  thread  where  he  had  broken  it  then. 
But  he  talked  of  other  things,  and  so  easily  and 
naturally  that  I  felt  embarrassed.  For  weeks  I 
could  not  shake  off  the  feeling  that,  at  our  next  talk, 
he  would  broach  the  subject.  But  he  never  did. 

Elysee  returned,  bringing  me  kind  words  from 
the  Mother  house,  and  a  half-jocular  hint  that  Su- 
perior General  Philippe  had  me  much  in  his  mind. 
No  doubt  there  had  been  a  time  when  the  idea  of 
becoming  a  Director  would  have  stirred  my  pulses. 
Surely  it  was  gone  now.  I  asked  for  nothing  but 
to  stay  beside  Edouard,  to  watch  him,  and  to  be 
near  to  lend  him  a  helping  hand  when  his  hour  of 
trouble  should  come.  From  that  ordeal,  which  I 
saw  approaching  clearly  and  certainly,  I  shrank 
with  all  my  nerves  on  edge.  As  the  object  of  my 
misery  grew  bright-eyed  and  strong,  I  felt  myself 
declining  in  health.  My  face  grew  thin,  and  I 
could  not  eat.  I  saw  before  my  eyes  always  this 
wretched  boy  singing  upon  the  brow  of  the  abyss. 
Sometimes  I  strove  not  to  see  his  fall — frightful  and 


BROTHER   SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP.      157 

swift.  His  secret  seemed  to  harass  him  no  longer. 
To  me  it  was  heavier  than  lead. 

The  evening  the  Brother  Director  returned,  we 
sat  together  in  the  reading-room,  the  entire  com- 
munity. Elysee  had  been  speaking  of  the  Mother- 
house,  concerning  which  Brother  Barnabas,  an  odd 
little  Lorrainer  who  spoke  better  German  than 
French,  and  who  regarded  Paris^with  the  true  pro- 
vincial awe  and  veneration,  exhibited  much  curios- 
ity. We  had  a  visitor,  a  gaunt,  self-sufficient  old 
Parisian,  who  had  spent  fourteen  days  in  the  Mazas 
prison  during  the  Commune.  I  will  call  him 
Brother  Albert,  for  his  true  name  in  religion  is  very 
well  known. 

"  I  heard  a  curious  story  in  the  Vaugirard  house," 
said  the  Brother  Director,  refreshing  himself  with  a 
pinch  of  snuff,  "  which  made  the  more  impression 
upon  me  that  I  once  knew  intimately  one  of  the 
persons  in  it.  Martin  Delette  was  my  schoolmate 
at  Pfalsbourg,  in  the  old  days.  A  fine,  studious  lad 
he  was,  too.  He  took  orders  and  went  to  the  north 
where  he  lived  for  many  years  a  quiet  country  cure. 
He  had  a  niece,  a  charming  girl,  who  is  not  now 
more  than  twenty  or  one-and  twenty.  She  was  an 
orphan,  and  lived  with  him,  going  to  a  convent  to 
school  and  returning  at  vacations.  She  was  not  a 
bad  girl,  but  a  trifle  wayward  and  easily  led.  She 
gave  the  Sisters  much  anxiety.  Last  spring  she 
barely  escaped  compromising  the  house  by  an  es- 
capade with  a  young  miserable  of  the  town  named 
Banin." 


158     BROTHER   SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP. 

"I  know  your  story,"  said  Albert,  with  an  air 
which  hinted  that  this  was  a  sufficient  reason  why 
the  rest  should  not  hear  it.  "  Banin  is  in  prison." 

Elysee  proceeded  :  "The  girl  was  reprimanded. 
Next  week  she  disappeared.  To  one  of  her  com- 
panions she  had  confided  a  great  desire  to  see  Paris. 
So  good  Father  Delette  was  summoned,  and,  after  a 
talk  with  the  Superioress,  started  post-haste  for  the 
capital.  He  found  no  signs  either  of  poor  Renee  or 
of  Banin,  who  had  also  disappeared.  The  Cure 
was  nearly  heart-broken.  Each  day,  they  told  me, 
added  a  year  to  his  appearance.  He  did  not  cease 
to  importune  the  police  chiefs  and  to  haunt  the  pub- 
lic places  for  a  glimpse  of  his  niece's  face.  But  the 
summer  came,  and  no  Renee.  The  Cur6  began  to 
cough  and  grow  weak.  But  one  day  in  August  the 
Director,  good  Prosper,  called  him  down  to  the  re- 
ception-room to  see  a  visitor. 

"  *  There  is  news  for  you/  "  he  whispered,  pressing 
poor  Martin's  hand.  In  the  room  he  found — " 

"  In  the  room  he  found — "  broke  in  Albert,  im- 
pertinently, but  with  a  quiet  tone  of  authority 
which  cowed  good  Elysee,  "  a  shabby  man,  looking 
like  a  poorly-fed  waiter.  This  person  rose  and 
said,  '  I  am  a  detective  ;  do  you  know  Banin — 
young  man,  tall,  blonde,  squints,  broken  tooth 
upper  jaw,  hat  back  on  his  head,  much  talk,  hails 
from  Rheims  ? ' 

"  '  Ah,'  said  Delette,  '  I  have  not  seen  him,  but  I 
know  him  too  well.' 

"The  detective  pointed  with  his  thumb  over  his 


BROTHER   SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP.      159 

left  shoulder.  *  He  is  in  jail.  He  is  good  for  twen- 
ty years.  I  did  it  myself.  My  name  is  so-and-so. 
Good  job.  Procurator  said  you  were  interested — 
some  woman  in  the  case,  parishioner  of  yours,  eh  ? ' 

"  '  My  niece,'  gasped  the  Cure. 

"  '  O  ho!  does  you  credit;  pretty  girl,  curly- 
head,  good  manners.  Well,  she's  off.  Good  trick, 
too.  She  was  the  decoy.  Banin  stood  in  the 
shadow  with  club.  She  brought  gentleman  into 
alley,  friend  did  work.  That's  Banin' s  story. 
Perhaps  a  lie.  You  have  a  brother  in  Algiers  ? 
Thought  so.  Girl  went  out  there  once  ?  So  I  was 
told.  Probably  there  now.  African  officers  say 
not ;  but  they're  a  sleepy  lot.  If  I  was  a  criminal, 
I'd  go  to  Algiers.  Good  biding/  The  detective 
went.  Delette  stood  where  he  was  in  silence.  I 
went  to  him,  and  helped  carry  him  up-stairs.  We 
put  him  in  his  bed.  He  died  there." 

Brother  Albert  stopped.  He  had  told  the  story, 
dialogue  and  all,  like  a  machine.  We  did  not 
doubt  its  correctness.  The  memory  of  Albert  had 
passed  into  a  proverb  years  before. 

Brother  Albert  raised  his  eyes  again,  and  added, 
as  if  he  had  not  paused,  "  He  was  ashamed  to  hold 
his  head  up.  He  might  well  be." 

A  strange,  excited  voice  rose  from  the  other  end 
of  the  room.  I  looked  and  saw  that  it  was  Edouard 
who  spoke.  He  had  half  arisen  from  his  chair  and 
scowled  at  Albert,  throwing  out  his  words  with  the 
tremulous  haste  of  a  young  man  first  addressing  an 
audience : 


160     BROTHER   SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP. 

"  Why  should  he  be  ashamed  ?  Was  he  not  a  good 
man?  Was  the  blame  of  his  bad  niece's  acts  his? 
From  the  story,  she  was  well  used  and  had  no  ex- 
cuse. It  is  he  who  is  to  be  pitied,  not  blamed !" 

The  Brother  Director  smiled  benignly  at  the 
young  enthusiast.  "  Brother  Edouard  is  right,"  he 
said.  "  Poor  Martin  was  to  be  compassioned. 
None  the  less,  my  heart  is  touched  for  the  girl.  In 
Banin's  trial  it  appeared  that  he  maltreated  her,  and 
forced  her  to  do  what  she  did  by  blows.  They  were 
really  married.  Her  neighbors  gave  Renee  a  name 
for  gentleness  and  a  good  heart.  Poor  thing !" 

"  And  she  never  was  found  ?"  asked  Abonus, 
eagerly.  He  spoke  very  rarely.  He  looked  now 
at  me  as  he  spoke,  and  there  was  a  strange,  ungodly 
glitter  in  his  eyes  which  made  me  shudder  involun- 
tarily. 

"Never,"  replied  the  Director,  "although  there 
is  a  reward,  5000  francs,  offered  for  her  recovery. 
Miserable  child,  who  can  tell  what  depths  of  suffer- 
ing she  may  be  in  this  moment  ?" 

"  It  would  be  remarkable  if  she  should  be  found 
now,  after  all  this  time,"  said  Abonus,  sharply. 
His  wicked,  squinting  old  eyes  were  still  fastened 
upon  me.  This  time,  as  by  a  flash  of  eternal  knowl- 
edge, I  read  their  meaning,  and  felt  the  ground  slip- 
ping from  under  me. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  night  that  followed.  I 
made  no  pretence  of  going  to  bed.  Edouard's  little 
dormitory  was  in  another  part  of  the  house.  I  went 
once  to  see  him,  but  dared  not  knock,  since  Abonus 


BROTHER    SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP.      161 

was  stirring  about  just  across  the  hall,  in  his  own 
den.  I  scratched  on  a  piece  of  paper  "Fly!"  in 
the  dark,  and  pushed  it  under  the  door.  Then  I 
returned  to  walk  my  chamber,  chafing  like  a  wild 
beast.  Ah,  that  night,  that  night ! 

With  the  first  cock  crow  in  the  village  below, 
long  before  the  bell,  I  left  my  room.  I  wanted  air 
to  breathe.  I  passed  Abonus  on  the  broad  stair- 
way. He  strode  up  with  unwonted  vigor,  bearing 
a  heavy  cauldron  of  water  as  if  it  had  been  straw. 
His  gown  was  tumbled  and  dusty ;  his  greasy  rabat 
hung  awry  about  his  neck.  I  had  it  in  my  head  to 
speak  with  him,  but  could  not.  So  the  early  hours, 
with  devotions  which  I  went  through  in  a  dream, 
wore  on  in  horrible  suspense,  and  breakfast  came. 

We  sat  at  the  long  table,  five  on  a  side,  the  Direct- 
or— looking  red-eyed  and  weary  from  the  evening's 
unaccustomed  dissipation— sitting  at  the  head.  Be- 
low us  stood  Brother  Albert,  reading  from  Tertul- 
lian  in  a  dry,  monotonous  chant.  I  recall,  as  I 
write,  how  I  found  a  certain  comfort  in  those 
splendid,  sonorous  Latin  sentences,  though  I  was 
conscious  of  not  comprehending  a  word.  I  dreaded 
the  moment  they  should  end.  Edouard  sat  beside 
me.  We  had  not  exchanged  a  word  during  the 
morning.  How  could  I  speak  ?  What  should  I  say  ? 
I  was  in  a  nervous  flutter,  like  unto  those  who 
watch  the  final  pinioning  of  a  criminal  whose 
guillotine  is  awaiting  him.  I  could  not  keep  my 
eyes  from  the  fair  face  beside  me,  with  its  delicate- 
ly-cut profile,  made  all  the  more  cameo-like  by  its 


162     BROTHER   SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP, 

pallid  whiteness.  The  lips  were  tightly  compressed. 
I  could  see  askant  that  the  tiny  nostrils  were  quiv- 
ering with  excitement.  All  else  was  impassive  on 
Edouard's  face.  We  two  sat  waiting  for  the  axe  to 
fall. 

It  is  as  distinct  as  a  nightmare  to  me.  Abonus 
came  in  with  his  great  server  laden  with  victuals. 
He  stumbled  as  he  approached.  He  too  was  excit- 
ed. He  drew  near,  and  stood  behind  me.  I  seemed 
to  feel  his  breath  penetrate  my  skull  ;  and  yet  I  was 
forced  to  answer  a  whispered  question  of  Brother 
John's  with  a  smooth  face.  I  saw  Edouard  sudden- 
ly reach  for  the  milk  glass  in  front  of  his  plate,  and 
hand  it  back  to  Abonus  with  the  disdain  of  a  duch- 
ess. He  said,  in  a  sharp,  peremptory  tone  : 

"  Take  it  away  and  cleanse  it.  No  one  but  a  dirty 
monk  would  place  such  a  glass  on  the  table." 

Albert  ceased  his  reading.  Abonus  did  not  touch 
the  glass.  He  shuffled  hastily  to  the  side-board  and 
deposited  his  burden.  Then  he  came  back  with  the 
same  eager  movement.  He  placed  his  fists  on  his 
hips,  like  a  fish-woman,  and  hissed,  in  a  voice  chok- 
ing with  concentrated  rage — 

"  No  one  but  a  woman  would  complain  of  it !" 

The  brothers  stared  at  each  other  and  the  two 
speakers  in  mute  surprise.  But  they  saw  nothing 
in  the  words  beyond  a  personal  wrangle — though 
even  that  was  such  a  novelty  as  to  arrest  instant  at- 
tention. I  busied  myself  with  my  plate.  The  Di- 
rector assumed  his  harshest  tone,  and  asked  the 
cause  of  the  altercation.  Abonus  leaned  over  and 


BROTHER   SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP.      163 

whispered  something  in  his  ear.  I  remember  next 
a  room  full  of  confusion,  a  babel  of  conflicting 
voices,  and  a  whirling  glimpse  of  uniforms.  Then 
I  fainted. 

When  I  revived  I  was  in  my  own  room,  stretched 
upon  my  pallet.  I  looked  around  in  a  dazed  way 
and  saw  the  Brother  Director  and  a  young  gen- 
darme by  the  closed  door.  Something  black  and 
irregular  in  the  outline  of  the  bed  at  my  side  at- 
tracted my  eyes.  I  saw  that  it  was  Edouard's  head 
buried  in  the  drapery.  As  in  a  dream  I  laid  my 
numb  hand  upon  those  crisp  curls.  I  was  an  old 
man,  she  a  weak,  wretched  girl.  She  raised  her 
face  at  my  touch,  and  burned  in  my  brain  a  vision 
of  stricken  agony,'  of  horrible  soul-pain,  which  we 
liken,  for  want  of  a  better  simile,  to  the  anguish  in 
the  eyes  of  a  dying  doe.  Her  lips  moved  ;  she  said 
something,  I  know  not  what.  Then  she  went,  and 
I  was  left  alone  with  Elysee.  His  words — broken, 
stumbling  words — I  remember  : 

"  She  asked  to  see  you,  Sebastian,  my  friend.  I 
could  not  refuse.  Her  papers  were  forged.  She  did 
come  from  Algiers,  where  her  uncle  is  a  Capuchin. 
I  do  not  ask,  I  do  not  wish  to  know,  how  much  you 
know  of  this.  Before  my  Redeemer,  I  feel  nothing 
but  pity  for  the  poor  lamb.  Lie  still,  my  friend ; 
try  to  sleep.  We  are  both  older  men  than  we  were 
yesterday." 

There  is  little  else  to  tell.  Only  twice  have  re- 
flections of  this  episode  in  my  old  life  reached  me 
in  the  seclusion  of  a  missionary  post  at  the  foot  of 


1 64     BROTHER   SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP. 

the  Andes.  I  learned  a  few  weeks  ago  that  the 
wretched  Abonus  had  bought  a  sailor's  caf£  on  the 
Toulon  wharves  with  his  five  thousand  francs.  And 
I  know  also  that  the  heart  of  the  Marshal-President 
was  touched  by  the  sad  story  of  Rene"e,  and  that 
she  left  the  prison  La  Salpetriere  to  lay  herself  in 
penitence  at  the  foot  of  Mother  Church.  This  is 
the  story  of  my  friendship. 


V  , 


r.. 


